Twilight of Fate
by D. Krispin
Summary: Even as the fingers of Porre seek to unite all the world under its iron rule, the prince of the fallen land of Guardia rises to free his kingdom. A tale tying together CT and CC, it concerns the fortunes that befall in the year following CC. (Complete)
1. Prologue

AUTHOR'S FOREWORD

* * *

As any can no doubt tell, this is a fan fiction based mostly upon the two games of the Chrono series (likely from the fact that it is placed within the category entitled "Chrono Cross.") But the obvious aside, I think I shall say a word or two regarding it in this prologue (though most, I deem, will skip right past this and to the story; few there are that care overmuch for forewords.)

The story itself is somewhat difficult to introduce. I should hope it needs no formal introduction, and that the following prologue and succeeding chapters suffice. But I shall make an attempt, at any rate, and speak of in what manner I write it, before the story proper begins. If this appears as an attempt to have people read the story, it is indeed so; this fan fiction site in particular is rife with any number of stories, and I do not wish this to be lost amidst it all. Now, concerning the story. For the first, I have not treated this as a work of fan fiction, but rather as a tale in its own right. In other words, I make no assumption that those reading it know aught of the story that precedes it, either of Chrono Trigger or of Chrono Cross, and begin all anew, from the describing of characters to the explanation of what came before (and to this much of the first few chapters, most especially the fourth, is devoted.) The story itself is intended as coming in the months following the conclusion of the second game, and so is set, roughly, in September of the year 1020. Furthermore this tale is not in anywise lighthearted, and is quite grim at times (though never, I must stress, dark in the depressing sense.) It is, I hope, in some small measure an emulation of the grimness that must be during a war. For this is largely a war-tale, telling of the rising of Guardia and its heroic king against the armies of Porre that oppress it, and the many things that come of that effort. In that vein I strive for all seriousness in its telling. For that matter, I am most serious in the process of writing as well, and have edited this all to quite an extent (though, being my own editor, it is invariable that errors will always remain in the grammar and spelling, despite my sincerest efforts to eliminate them.) I think there is far more I could say, but I deem that any reading so far have tired of this. If the story cannot speak for itself, it is not worth telling, so I will let it do so.

But one more thing, first: for those who might have read some earlier drafts of this story, of chapters one to seven or so as they existed on this site prior to mid-August 2004 or so, I apologize (anything of a later draft I will mark with the date of its editing; at this writing it is merely this prologue that is of the newer group, but the chapters one to seven will follow soon enough.) Those earlier drafts were written and edited quite some time ago (a good year, at the least), and I think my writing has, at least in some measure, matured in that space of time. That said this current version, most especially in the earliest chapters, contains writing more in line with the later segments (though, unfortunately, it is still lacking aside what I wrote later.) But be that as it may, if there are any that glance over these chapters, having read them before, there will most certainly be changes evident. Not in content, for the most part (save for a cut segment or two), but in the style. I looked back upon much of chapter one, especially, with loathing. The descriptions and style of wording seemed, to me, so childish that I at needs changed many of them. They are still not as good as they might be (for surely my style now, as it is in this very foreword, is somewhat removed from that of the first few chapters), but I think they will suffice. I do not think that I (or, rather, hope that I will not) will feel compelled to ever return and do extensive editing to this tale again.

Finally, in regards to legal matters such as they are, I think it to be common knowledge that most of the background story contained within this tale, that which it is based upon, is from the two games which belong in whole to Squaresoft or, as it is called nowadays, Square-Enix. Though coloured through the author's interpretation and the like, it will remain irrevocably so, and so I bow to their rights regarding it in these matters. What is of my own, however, is the language that I put forth as being of Zeal; it is certainly not so in truth and is of my own invention for a separate tale of my own making that I am embarking upon, and so hold it to be mine and if needs be separate from this tale for most purposes. I merely thought it an apt thing to do: to transfer it from one to the other, for it has been a most difficult work in charting this language out so far, and I thought it might work in this case to lend something of depth to the story. That said, there are also fragments of dialogue and such that I have written for this story that I have liked and simply transferred over to my other original story. So saying I wish to hold those fragments as my own (for they do not include anything otherwise copyrighted.) That, I think, is about all. If I have forgotten anything, I trust it is implied. There are more than enough legal disclaimers on the other fan stories, and this simply follows suit in that regard.

If any have read this far in this foreword, I marvel, and now bow out of introduction to give way to the story itself.

Foreword written August 12, 2004

* * *

PROLOGUE

**THE FALLING OF EMPIRES

* * *

**

Ere Rome fell a small kingdom arose far to the west, where its power did not hold. Built upon an island far to sea it was founded by a rogue centurion of Rome, disillusioned with the conquest he so blindly sought in serving his empire. This was Guardia, and for one thousand years it thrived unconquered. Rome fell, it lasted. The years of dark sorcery and mystics came upon the world. Shadows crept slowly west from forgotten realms, and ancient evils unseen for millennia stirred once more. A mighty sorcerer strove for mastery of the lands. Many were the fruitless deeds of valour done in those years as Guardia fought against his legions. But heroes came forth, and so it yet endured. Its kings never sought for power or dominion as other lords did, and so the kingdom had long years of peace and prosperity. Yet after one thousand years a mighty empire arose at last. Far to the south, while the people of northern Guardia lived yet content as they had for centuries, a power unmatched since the ancient ages of Rome arose, and the kingdoms of the world fell beneath the new born might of Porre. Yet the people of the small land of Guardia did not take kindly to the constraints of conquerors... and a prince yet lived. And yet no ordinary prince this was. For he was a hero, a mighty warrior who had defied the most ancient evils and to whom time itself had once been as an open road. He yet resisted, and strove against the conqueror's armies. For fifteen years he worked in secret, as a sudden shadow of night, striking swiftly and ever returning whence he came, unseen to the eyes of his enemies. Yet empires do not fall by the hands of one alone. And so before those years were ended, war would once more come upon the land. And far to the west of even the westward land of Guardia, tremors of this coming doom crept...

(Last edited August 12, 2004)


	2. Echo of a Lost Past

CHAPTER I

**ECHO OF A LOST PAST

* * *

**

The vast domain of the ocean stretched as far as the eyes could see. Crimson and gold light from the setting sun danced merrily upon the surface, glittering as a sea of countless gems. Alone on this vast and tranquil expanse a lone boat swept through the water. It was a small fishing boat, in the style of a catamaran, with an offset second hull. Its single white sail fluttered in the gentle evening breeze that pushed the boat onward. At its prow stood a solitary figure, staring out aimlessly at the sea. He smiled at the world around him, and at the peace that dusk brought.

He closed his eyes, the soft sea spray washing across his face, the wind blowing merrily through his deep blue hair. He opened his eyes again. In the distance the shore of land was just visible, floating upon the horizon. It was home, for him. He turned from the prow of the boat and grasped the tiller in the rear. The small craft was nearly full with a day's catch of fish. Even so he was nearly sad to be returning home, for he loved the sea, not least for the solace it provided.

The boat glided softly across the water with hardly a sound, the distant land growing swiftly larger. The boy at the tiller put his hand in the sea, allowing the cool, rushing water to flow between his fingers. Looking to the west he saw the crimson sun falling slowly into the sea.

"Hey, Serge! You're back!"

The boy glanced up sharply. He had been too intent on staring out to sea that he had failed to realize he was nearly ashore. A small fishing village lay on the coast not a hundred feet ahead. Upon a pier a young girl stood waving. It seemed that she had been waiting for him. Returning the greeting, he expertly guided the boat to the moorings.

"Did you have a good day fishing?" the girl asked merrily as the boat glided to its place.

The boy nodded. The fishing had been very good, much better than most days. He leaped from the boat onto the solid wood of the pier, and the craft rocked backwards. He quickly grabbed a rope from inside the boat and tied it fast to the pier so that it could not return to sea of its own.

The boy, whose name was Serge, was but a few short weeks shy of eighteen and so, by the customs of his village, was very nearly held to be a man. His stature was not exceptionally great, but about what was common in that part of the world in those days. He also looked younger than he truly was, his boyish face taking some years off his age. From atop his head locks of deep blue hair cascaded down before his eyes; their hue, even as his hair, seemed to echo that of the sea itself. But hair was not naturally blue; it was certainly dyed, and this was not an uncommon thing in costal Arni, which was his village and home. The face below the hair was gentle seeming, though his two blue eyes were constantly alert as those of a relentless hunter or warrior, in strange opposition to his simple calling. And, though he for the most part disliked speaking at much length, he was as friendly as anybody might be to those that knew him well.

All told he was much like all the other youths of the village. And even so he was dressed in the customary manner for a young fisherman. On his feet were large sea boots stained through long days of use; long blue pants that fell down nearly to the mid of his shins that were traditionally embroidered; and a dark shirt with short cut sleeves. In a slight breaking of custom he wore across his chest a coat of linked iron rings that served little purpose in his daily life other than appearance sake (for in those waters, as in most, the fish were not a menace to those who hunted them, and mail has never been a fisherman's garb). But the remainder of his clothing was all very much common: a belt of black leather fastened with a silvered clasp; worn leather gloves that would not last out the year; and a faded red cloth wrapped fast about his head that kept his hair, for the most part, from his eyes.

The girl now standing upon the pier before him was also dressed in what was customary of the village tribe: a long and simple dress of deep blue, covered with elaborately embroidered overclothes in varying shades of maroon and black. Lengthy brown hair fell back unrestrained from a quiet, gentle face, with kind eyes.

"Hi Leena," Serge greeted her with a smile. "Been waiting long?"

She smiled as she replied:

"No, I just wandered out here a little while back. I was watching some of the neighbour's kids, but once they went home, I supposed I'd best wait for you."

That was Leena; she was always helping in the village in some way. Whether doing odd errands, watching children, or any other thing, she did whatever she could to ease the life of the other people of the village.

"I see fishing was pretty good today," she noted, kneeling and taking a glance into the boat that rocked gently in the evening waves.

He nodded, stealing a short look at his boat and making doubly sure there was no chance of it coming loose in the night should there be a storm.

"Really good," he said with an absent voice. "The sea was perfect..."

They strolled off the pier and continued down the sandy beachfront that ran between the village and the ocean. He spent most days so, speaking with Leena after a day of fishing. She was certainly his most dear friend, and at times, he thought, perhaps more than even a friend. Moreover, she was ever willing to listen to whatever he might say, which was always a joy to him. This especially during the past few months, ever since a disquieting experience he had had, talking to Leena on the beach in just such a way.

He had been with her, albeit in the mid-day and farther down the island, talking. Then, for no reason he could remember, he had fallen unconscious. He could recall little of those few minutes, yet he seemed to remember that he had heard a voice or some sort, or someone calling his name, even as he had passed out. Leena after told him she hadn't heard a sound but the sea.

And his memory in this matter was not something to be trusted. When he had awoken he had been very uncertain of everything. He could only remembered Leena kneeling over him, trying to revive him. Then, he couldn't recall for what reason, he had stood up and asked Leena a puzzling question. A question about fate, and a some strange thing called Terra Tower. He had no idea, neither now nor then, what it meant. However, he had the distinct impression that he had known at the instant he had uttered the question but, just as a dream fades from memory on the moment of awakening, the words ceased to have any meaning to him. He could never remember why he had spoken them. Leena had borne it with her usual grace, dismissing it as a mere dream, the product of an idle mind and too much time under the sea-sun. But Serge was not fully certain as she seemed to be. He had tried to assure himself that Leena was, in all likelihood, correct, and had succeeded for the most part. Yet still his heart had un-quelled misgivings. To that end he had inquired about the words at far flung islands when he had had the opportunity: at Guldove and Marbule, both known for wise and learned people, and even at Termina, the capital city of the region. Yet no one had given him a sure answer. And so he had been left to discover what he might on his own, and to decide whether or not it was of importance.

The greater part of him went with the reason of his mind that told him, as Leena did, to ignore what had happened. But somewhere in his heart a whisper seemed to hint otherwise, and it was a persistent whisper, moreover. He had often voiced this to Leena on their evening walks, but, as compassionate as she was, she had no answers.

He looked at Leena, walking beside him on the sand. Perhaps had the incident remained only as a single thing, he would have forgotten about in these months. But it had not ended.

To his grave disquiet the event seemed to repeat itself each and every night as he slept. His unconscious mind was haunted by mysterious images he could never fully remember when he awoke. He stared out at the departing sun, watching it set in its customary red-golden glory.

"I had another dream last night..." he muttered in a near whisper.

Leena sighed, having known by his face from the time he had come ashore that it was so.

"Forget about them, Serge," she replied, stopping and turning to face him. "You can never remember them anyway. I know you say that you think they mean something, but really, how can you know that? Dreams are just that, no matter what the old stories say."

Serge halted also and, turning his face from the sun, looked at Leena.

"Maybe. I know that Leena. I tell myself that every day. And I keep thinking that maybe each night will be better, but it never is. So, maybe there's something more to it. Maybe not, but I just don't know. And that's the problem: what if I'm wrong? What if it really means something important that I'm supposed to know about?"

Leena nodded compassionately.

"I understand that, Serge. But," she looked from him to the sun, which was now touching the sea, "What are we doing talking about this now? Whatever it is, it's probably not about today. Let's just forget about it for a while and enjoy this evening. If you watch the sun set, maybe you'll feel better."

Leena was right. What was the use of worrying about future or past? The future brings what it will, though what, none can know. One can only make the best out of what it holds. And the past no one can change, so to what avail should one worry about it? Truly, it was the present that was of greatest importance. For the manner in which he lived now would shape his past, and determine the form of his future. Leena understood that, and it brought him somewhat of a peace to think in those same terms. Whatever the future held, he would face it then, but live his life now.

"You're right Leena," he said, hoping that she was, "I shouldn't worry so much."

He smiled as the sun dipped into the vast ocean and wished all days could end so.

----

The night was falling upon his village by the time Serge made his way home. A cool sea breeze blew in from the ocean, and the first stars were now beginning to show. It was nights such as these that made life worth living, he thought, as he stepped lightly into the village. The calm of darkness had descended on the village like a solemn veil, only a soft light still lingering in the west as the last rays of the sun vanished from sight. He wished Leena a good night as they parted company, and she made her way home. Alone now with the darkness, Serge breathed deeply of the night air, relishing the twilight. Striding at a calm pace, he crossed the small courtyard that lay at the middle of the village. About this space were set most of the buildings of the village, a dozen or so houses built in the traditional style of the El Nido islands: tall, with their bases raised on stilts his height off the ground. The material of which they were made was plain, being constructed of native palm wood and roofed with the leaves. These made for thankful shelter from the infernal midday sun, and cover from the monsoon rains that came in torrents once or twice every year.

His mother, a woman like to most of the others that lived in the village, stood at the door of his house, and greeted him merrily as he strode up the tottering wooden stairs to the main floor of his house. He smiled at her, but could not fully conceal his mind, as it had become troubled with concern again. His mother frowned, seeing something amiss with his mood.

"What is it Serge, my boy?" she asked, eyeing him carefully. "You look worried again. I know I've asked you before, but is something bothering you?"

Serge did not enjoy speaking much, and did not particularly wish to mention his dreams to anyone other than Leena; she was the only one who knew.

"I'm fine. Just had a long day fishing," he stated. His mother sighed, yielding, but certainly unconvinced. The two strode indoors, leaving the door open to night air, as everyone in Arni customarily did. Being a small village, everyone in Arni knew and trusted everyone else as next of kin. Locks and bars were not usually necessary, except perhaps to ward off wild animals, but those seldom entered the village. And as for thieves...there was not much of great value in such a poor fishing hamlet.

However, on this night, unseen by all eyes, a dark figure strode boldly in the front gate of the village, and silently mingled into the shadows surrounding the buildings. The darkness veiled the figure like a cloak as it glanced about with bird-like caution, seeking the village for something. Finally, fixing it's a sharp gaze on Serge's house for a brief moment, it turned and faded completely into the night.

Serge walked into his room, exhaustion finally overcoming him. It had been a long day at sea, and the fishing had indeed been good, though more tiresome. Yet, in a way, he did not wish to sleep. His mind was troubled, and had grown ever more so as the weeks had passed, despite Leena's enthusiastic encouragement to forget about it. The elusive dreams that haunted his sleeping mind, as a ghost felt yet unseen, gnawed at his thoughts. Indeed, as he had told Leena many times, he could never remember what they were about. But this had soon begun to disquiet him. Only vague images flitted into his mind from time to time. The dreams themselves never failed to slip from memory on the moment of awakening, as if some other power was attempting to keep them from him. A strange, and utterly ridiculous thought.

He dropped down on his bed, removing his sea worn boots. It was odd, but he was certain the dreams were something more, something more important than simple stray thoughts. A warning? He contemplated this for a moment, but decided for some reason that that at least was not the case. No, they were no warning, but something else of importance to him...

Serge turned, nearly falling off his bed. He had heard a sudden noise at his window. A dull crash, as if someone had struck wood. He waited a moment that seemed to last forever, his senses heightened by momentary fear. The dark palm leaves swayed in the wind outside his window. And nothing happened. He shook his head, aggravated by his unfounded fear. In all reason, there was nothing of any danger to him, most especially not in Arni. It was late evening after a long day, and now his disquieted mind was playing tricks on him. In all likelihood it had been nothing more than a branch blown awry in the wind...

"Will you hearken to me, Chrono Trigger?"

This time Serge did indeed stumble off his bed, landing hard on the wooden floor. A voice had come from the darkness outside, whispered in unsure question. That in and of itself would have been enough to frighten him. But the words caused his mind to spin. They echoed in his head, sending images sweeping through his mind. But before he could place any meaning or importance upon them, they melted away. It was then that his momentary confusion was replaced by fear. Now he could sure something had addressed him. Summoning his courage, he stepped to the window sill and leaned out, staring out into the darkness. However nothing but shadows and darkness met his gaze. He cursed himself for his mind, so easily fooled by the noises of the night as a little child. Perhaps he had been dwelling too much on his dreams.

He shrugged with a sigh, unsure as what to think, and more than a little unsettled. He turned from the window and strode to his mirror. Absently unbinding his bandana, he flung it onto the dresser, letting his long deep blue hair fall down over his eyes. Serge ran his hand through his hair and sighed. He silently wished, prayed, every night that these elusive dreams would leave him in his peace, so that he could wake without questions about what he knew not. What had he done to be cursed with this torment? Nothing. That he knew full well. And such was the way with things. He turned from the mirror, hoping that this night would be better than the last.

But before he could take but one step forward he froze, too startled to move. A dark figure stood crouched on the sill of his window. A cloak concealed his entire body, and a hood shrouded his face in darkness. It did not say a word, but simply kneeled there, as if waiting for Serge to do or say something. For long they both stood motionless. Serge did not move, uncertain as to what he should make of this dark intruder. Likewise the figure crouched frozen, with such alert stillness that Serge could feel himself being studied keenly from beneath the shadowy hood. But as the seconds passed, and nothing happened for the worse, his fear transformed into curiosity.

He took a small step forward, unsure about what he should do. His mind told him to run, that no good ever came from such mysteries, but some part of him desired to know who, perhaps what, this visitor was. His reason still admonishing him to run, he broke the dead silence that lay between them.

"Who are you? I'll have you know that my window isn't a door. And even if it was, you could be polite enough to..."

But the stranger had raised a gloved hand and, without question, Serge stopped in the midst of his words. The cloaked phantom stood up in the sill and jumped lightly into the room, making hardly a sound as its feet hit the floor. Now in the candlelight of the room Serge could, for what it was worth, see it better. Whatever it was, it wasn't exceptionally tall; it was no more than his own height at the most. It was robed in a dark blue cloak that shimmered slightly. But Serge's heart chilled when he saw what could be nothing other than a sword hanging at the figure's side. A silvered hilt gleamed as it shifted about, glancing from side to side, still not affording Serge a sight of the features that lay concealed. But now it spoke, not evil to Serge's ears, but with a calm voice, yet deep and sure:

"Yes, I know well who you are, Serge. Verily, I know you better than even you know yourself, you who was once the second Chrono Trigger."

Once again Serge had been addressed so. And, as before, a strange sort of understanding sparked through his mind, only to fade into oblivion. The figure shook its head shortly.

"I see that you do not remember what that means. Though not unexpected, it is a pity, for it makes things difficult."

The figure spoke gently, almost in a friendly manner, though with disappointment clear in its voice. Serge found himself angrily wondering at what it was that he didn't remember about that title, for he had never heard it before.

"Have I met you before. I mean, do I know you?" Serge questioned, hoping for some answers, at least. And hoping that they would be to his liking.

To Serge's discomfort, the figure laughed. A strange laugh, as if slightly amused by the question.

"No, never, my friend. But I know much of you, and of what you did."

Serge frowned, much confused.

What had he ever done to merit attention? Surely this stranger wasn't interested in his fishing.

"You do not understand," the figure acknowledged. "Do not worry yourself, it may return to you, in the due course of time."

It paused for a moment. If Serge had seen its features, he would surely have seen a light of a sudden thought spring up in its eyes.

"Maybe it already has?" It continued. "Perhaps you simply cannot understand it for what it is..."

Serge's mind was struck dumb by this. Could it be possible that this mysterious visitor was referring to his dreams? No, that was beyond reason. He attempted to banish the thought, but the figure seemed discern his very thoughts as he had them.

"You are having dreams, then? And you cannot recall them? She said it might be so."

Serge didn't answer, but the stranger seemed to read the truth in his eyes.

"She was right then. It is returning to you after all. But you do not know it yet, and you fear it. Yes, the unknown is most always frightening, even to the boldest of men."

And mystifying, Serge added bitterly in his mind. What was this phantom talking about? These cryptic hints and suggestions of some secret were beginning to bother Serge. But the figure continued, heedless of Serge's uneasiness.

"For now all I will say is that those dreams hold the echo to a past that you have forgotten."

More cryptic hints, and his mood was hardly for riddles.

"My past? Now that I really don't understand," Serge replied, more uncertain now than ever, and with a slight anger coming over him as well. The figure laughed lightly, not easing Serge's temper in the least.

"Of course not. How could you be expected to? But you must be wondering who I am, to so boldly come to you like this..."

The figure lifted his hands and threw back his hood. For a moment Serge was prepared for the something terrible. But his fears were not founded. The figure was indeed human, and neither monster nor mystic. Serge could but guess, but it seemed that he was some thirty years old. His features were sharp and somewhat scarred, and his eyes were keen as a hawk's. From his head fell long unkempt hair, remarkably and almost unnaturally red, kept in submission by a tattered white band that held his hair from his eyes. There seemed to be an air of adventure and valour about him. And it seemed his face showed one who had seen much of the world, but had not nearly yet tired of life. He smiled kindly at Serge, as if he had long awaited this meeting.

"So, we meet at long last. Long have the threads of our fate intertwined, our stories but two chapters of a single tale, and yet have never met. This will mean nothing to you as of yet, but I am called Crono, and was, on a time, the first Chrono Trigger."

How true, thought Serge bitterly. It was meaningless to his ears, save for those two words that he had heard before: chrono trigger.

"Chrono Trigger?" questioned Serge, yearning to know the reason as to why those words seemed to harbour so much meaning. The second was plain enough, and the first seemed to be of some old language, maybe Greek. The man who called himself Crono nodded, with a reminiscing smile.

"Yes, Chrono Trigger, as some might say it, though there are other names as well. For we have both played a part in forging the history of this world that we know, challenged fate and defied ancient powers; yet in the end, we have persevered. But that all is a tale for a different time, and there is only one who can tell it to you fully, and as you should hear it."

This didn't answer his question, much to Serge's vexation. But the man continued heedless of this, saying:

"But that is not why I've come. To come in by windows is not the habit of skalds and tale-tellers. If you must know, I've come to you seeking your help..."

"Me? But why? All right, you've had your say. Who are you then? Are you some mercenary swordsman?" Serge asked, taking into account both the ragged, travel worn appearance of the man, and the sword that was fastened at his side. Then, thinking on the last words that had been said, a new question dawned upon him: "How could I help you?" Serge demanded, his impatience growing apace.

But the man shook his head, casting out all chance of answers.

"I think this is well nigh enough for our first meeting. But mark this: it won't be our last. I'll meet with you again. Farewell till then, Serge Chrono Trigger, defender of time and the world."

Serge was about to beg him to stay, but with a short bow the man darted for the window. Serge followed after, both grateful and angered by this sudden departure. But the man was too quick. In one swift movement he had leaped onto the sill and slipped out the window, blending like a shadow into the darkness before Serge's eyes. From the night a few last words reached him, saying:

"And remember the Chrono Cross!"

Now what was this? The Chrono Cross? Images swept Serge's mind, almost as of a long forgotten memory or a dream come to play on the its surface: there was a shining light, and then the face young woman arrayed in crimson. But it all too quickly they faded, leaving Serge clutching once again only at questions. His mind was uncertain and rang with disquiet, but his heart was astir: something was rising, and when it did, his questions would be answered.

Yet at that time the mystery was still heavily upon him, and it took him long to find sleep that night.

(Last Edited August 17, 2004)


	3. A Most Peculiar Morning

CHAPTER II 

**A MOST PECULIAR MORNING

* * *

**

A cat peered at him. Yet it was not a mere cat, for its eyes shone with understanding. It was a demi-human, a union in the likeness of an animal, but with the cunning of man. And it was of man-like stature, maybe taller, and arrayed in finely adorned robes; yet the face was that of a lynx, set with two evil eyes burned into his mind like fire. Where, then, was he? Was this a cavern? A stone hall, perhaps? Everything seemed in a swoon about him. There was a voice at his side, but he could not mark the words. The world reeled and swam before his eyes. Images flitted before him. There was a young girl, and he wondered if he had seen her before, for she seemed to bear a certain mysterious familiarity.

And then came dark sights: first, a knife from which newly drawn blood dripped; and then the girl again, lying still on a stone floor. Was she dead, and was that her lifeblood on the knife? Then it was even worse, for an awful premonition filled him. He saw himself. And he held the dagger, while a wicked smile crossed his lips...

Serge awoke with a profound start. He was in his room, and the bright sunlight shimmered in through the half open window, casting merry amber light on whatever it could touch. What had frightened him so? The still beauty of morning had driven the fear from him, and he fought to remember from what he had just awoken. To his surprise he found he could remember, though vaguely. But now he wished he could not. Sitting up in bed he sighed. It was ironic that he had spent the last few months hoping that for once he could recall his dreams and, now that he at last had, he would do anything not to be able to. Even in the morning light he shivered. The dream had been dark, and still haunted the corners of his mind. What did it mean? Could it mean anything at all? He hoped that Leena was right, that his dreams were just that. But no, that could not be. Not after last night. He thought back to the previous evening. Now it seemed like to a dream also. That strange man that had visited him. What had he called himself? Something foreign he could not now remember. In memory it seemed so vague. Had he perhaps imagined it all? Or, more likely, had he dreamt it? There certainly was no other way by which to explain it. The mysterious person had known far too much about him to be anything beyond a manifestation of his overtired mind. He walked to the window where he had imagined the events occur the previous night.

Outside the lush palm trees waved gently in the warm tropical breeze. He looked up for the horizon and saw that the sun was already high in the sky. Had he truly slept in so late? He guessed the time to be past midday. If that was so, perhaps he wouldn't go out fishing today. Yesterday's catch had been good enough that he could afford to forego one day or two. He could perhaps spend the day with Leena, if she wasn't busy with other things. She'd like that, and so would he. It would be a change from the way most days went. And maybe she could help him find peace with his dreams. Before they had unnerved him because he couldn't remember what they were. Now they disturbed him because he could. He put his elbows on the window and sighed. His simple life was going from bad to very much worse. First phantom dreams had haunted him, and now nightmares and hallucinations tormented him. He hoped Leena would be understanding when he told her of it. If she wasn't, he knew that nobody would be. He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun, looking out to sea. A few small village boats were out. And, if his eyes weren't mistaken, he could see Leena standing on the beach near the piers. He turned and slipped on his boots. He hadn't cared to change the previous night, and was still fully dressed. He tied his band fast about the top of his head and glanced in the mirror, assuring himself that he looked no worse than he had the day before. He turned back to the window. A strange thought crossed his mind: he had half expected to see his phantom sitting there, as he had imagined or dreamt the night before. But only the distant sea and beach, wreathed in palm trees like picture frames, greeted his eyes. All the more assurance that his visitor had been but a dream.

He stared for a moment, contemplating whether or not to bother eating before he went to see Leena. He wasn't particularly hungry he concluded, and he had overslept enough as it was. And at the moment he was more eager to speak to Leena than to eat. His mother didn't care when he came and left; she knew he was well nigh old enough to care for himself. With a small sideways leap he vaulted out the window and landed on the soft grassy ground beneath his window.

The air was clear and fresh, and the smell of the sea cleared his head of the last traces of sleep as he ran lightly through the trees to the beach. The beach was near and he had reached it in a but a moment.

Leena was facing towards the piers and away from Serge as he approached her.

"Hey Leena!" he called out loudly, causing her to jump in alarm.

But she knew his voice well enough and, with a sigh, she turned, mock anger on her face.

"Don't do that to me, Serge!" she said, putting her hands on her hips.

"Sorry," he answered with a smile. He looked about.

"Watching the neighbour's kids again?" he noted, noticing a few small children running around, playing at mock battles a ways up the beach.

She nodded.

"Their parents are off to Termina till tomorrow, and they asked me if I could watch them."

"What we wouldn't give to be like that again, eh?" he asked of her, seeing the children prancing about. "They don't worry about much of anything, do they?"

She shrugged.

"Oh, I suppose that being a kid has good things. But I don't think that I'd want to be quite that age again, Serge. Running around the whole day, starting pretend fights with everyone I meet. It would get frightfully boring."

"And real fights are better?" he asked. "Is it better to play a hero, or to actually be the one that runs around killing things and maybe getting hurt?"

"Well, that's why we can leave those things to other people," she stated. "Thank goodness that Arni's peaceful enough that we don't need to worry ourselves about things like that."

Well, peaceful enough for most, Serge answered to himself. He ran his hands through his hair, wondering how he should begin to tell Leena about his dream. Leena noticed his disquiet, however, and was quick to guess what was upon his mind.

"You had another dream, didn't you?" she said upon seeing his expression. "What have I told you about them? If you can't remember what they are, then it's best to forget you ever had them."

"But I did remember this one," he answered shortly.

At first she did not reply, not having expected such a response. Then at last she ventured to say: "You actually remembered what you dreamed?"

Serge nodded gravely, and Leena read his expression.

"It was that bad?" she wondered, seeing how upset he truly was.

Again Serge nodded.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked cautiously, not knowing if he wished to speak of it or not. She could see from his face that it had bothered him deeply.

But Serge needed to tell someone, and if not Leena, whom?

He told her of his dream. Of what he could remember, that was. He didn't mention his phantom, however. That was something that he did not want to approach yet, unsure as to how even Leena would see such a thing as that. She sighed.

"I don't know Serge. I can see why it bothered you. Nobody likes to have nightmares like that. But I still think it's just a dream. Nothing to worry about, especially now that you know what it is."

Her tone reassured him. Child, he cursed himself. Of course Leena was right. He had been a fool to account too much to what he had dreamt.

"Thanks Leena. You're right," he paused, "again."

She smiled.

"Of course I'm right, Serge! Aren't I always?" she said with a smile.

She had put his mind at ease as to his unsettling dream. Yet even now he was not sure what she would say if he told her about the dream he had had of the man in his window. However, he assured himself, Leena was his truest friend. She, if anybody, would understand.

But even as he was about to tell her of it she frowned deeply, as if trying to remember something forgotten.

"What is it Leena?" he questioned, somewhat relieved that he had a few more moments to gather his thoughts.

"Oh, there was something I was going to tell you, that's all," she said, shaking her head. Suddenly she nodded, clearly remembering it.

"Oh yes, that was it. Earlier this morning someone came down to the beach asking for you."

"For me? Who?" Serge asked. He had no clue who would be asking for him especial.

"I don't know. He wasn't from around here, but he was polite enough. I think he was from the mainland in the east. An older person, with reddish hair. He said his name was Crono or something odd and foreign like that, and that you knew him. I naturally told him you were still in bed and, knowing you, when you sleep in..."

But Serge had stopped listening. His heart had seemingly turned to ice in his chest. Nothing in the world could have shocked him as greatly as what Leena was now telling him.

Leena stopped talking in a moment, sensing something gravelly wrong.

"Serge?" she demanded. "Serge, you alright?"

He didn't know how to answer that. No, he most certainly wasn't all right. His mind was confused beyond imagination. Suddenly he was unsure as to what was real, and what was not. But even so he didn't want to worry Leena.

"Yes. Sort of," he mumbled, not wanting to lie, but unable to tell the truth. "Leena, I just need to go check on something."

It was not exactly the truth, but the best he could think of in that moment. But Leena certainly didn't accept it, either.

"Serge, something's wrong," she demanded. "What is it?"

"Nothing, Leena," Serge answered hastily, wishing to leave; he needed to think, and for that he needed to be alone.

"Serge, don't lie to me! You look almost pale. What is it?" She repeated, firmly standing her ground.

Serge could see it was of no use to argue the matter. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked at her gravely.

"I swear I'll tell you later Leena, but right now I just have to be by myself for a bit, alright?"

He hoped that Leena understood this.

"Yes, okay..." she replyed. "Are you sure you don't want to tell me what the problem is?"

She was certainly slightly hurt that he would rather run off to be alone than speak with her, but bore it gracefully.

"Leena, if it makes you feel any better, I've got no idea what's going on either. That's why I've got to go, to think about it," Serge said, hoping thereby to balm her mood somewhat.

Leena sighed, but tried to smile for her part.

"All right," she muttered in a low voice, "but don't be long."

"Bye!" he yelled absently behind him as he ran toward the village, intending to continue through to somewhere in the jungle beyond. But he had little idea of where he was heading, and hardly knew what to think. After all this, his phantom had been real? It still seemed absurd. He ran past the village tavern into the courtyard, barely aware of what was about him.

"Sleep well, Serge?"

Serge stopped at once.

He knew the voice. He turned and found himself face to face with the very same man who had confronted him in his room. He leaned in the shadows against the wall of the tavern, his arms folded lightly across his chest, one foot on the ground, the other set on the wall behind him. His face was slightly haggard looking and unshaven, as of one who has been out in the wilderness for some time. He wore no cloak now, and Serge could see he was dressed in a most peculiar fashion. Indeed, it reminded him not a little of the style of the Zenan mainland. He wore calf-length pants that none in Arni would even contemplate wearing in such a hot climate. He bore a worn shirt as well, this all being draped over by knee length robes of silvan-green, kept from half-open by a black belt that encircled his waist. And, just as Serge remembered from the night before, from his side hung an elaborate falchion sword. The man smiled at him.

"I suppose that I continue to startle you, do I not? First I appear in you window in the middle of the night, and now I surprise you as you come around a corner..."

He laughed faintly. Something in the man's friendly manner seemed to calm Serge's initial shock. Despite the sword, Serge felt less intimidated by this man in full daylight. The man put his foot down and stepped from the wall.

"But I know that the time has come now for a formal introduction. I already know well enough who you are, so do not trouble yourself with that. As for who I am," he trailed off, rapping his fingers along the tavern wall. "Well, that is somewhat of a long story, if truth be told, and so I will attempt to make as brief as possible now. Doubtless you've heard of Guardia?"

Serge nodded. Everyone had at some time or another. Now a legend of a sort, it had been a peaceful kingdom on the mainland continent of Zenan nearly twenty years earlier. But it had been overrun by the Porre empire around the time Serge was born. Now Guardia was a merely a sweet memory in the pages of history, and Porre commanded a vast empire that stretched from the western El Nido islands to far eastern realms Serge had never even heard of. The man continued:

"Well, you should know that I am the exiled prince of Guardia. Or was, once upon a time. The king is long since dead and, were Guardia to ever rise again, I would be sovereign. But until that day comes, I continue to hold my title as prince. So, you can well see why I've been so furtive. El Nido is under the heel of Porre, and I cannot simply let them know that the heir to the throne of their enemy is here. Anyway, as for my name...as I told you before, I am known as Crono; that is Kronos to the learned, I believe. Not my true full name, but a taken one better than any others I have had. And it's what my friends have always called me. The rest of my story, and yours too, you will learn in time. For now it must simply be said that...

But Crono broke off in the mid of his sentence and froze, as a deer startled in the forest by an approaching hunter. In one swift movement he had swept about and was against the far wall of the tavern.

"Curses," he murmured. A Porre officer was wandering with a determined gait through the front gate of the village. Serge wondered absently for a moment what a soldier was doing in such a small village, for though Arni was surely under the empire's power soldiers almost never came here unless there was some great need. However, one glance at Crono's agitated face answered his question in full.

"I do not have time for this. Get rid of him!" Crono whispered urgently, making himself as invisible as possible.

Serge glanced over at Crono. He didn't particularly wish to deal with a Porre soldier.

"By all righteousness, don't look this way of all ways," Crono muttered between his teeth, his hand going at once to the hilt of his sword.

Sighing with frustration, but wanting least of all to have a battle here in the very centre of the village, Serge stepped forward to greet the officer, who had wandered importantly to the centre of the square. His dress was typical of the soldiers Serge had seen before. He wore a pristine blue uniform, long sleeved and adorned with various belts and decorations. Even his black boots were somehow untarnished. A slender sabre and a flint musket were slung from a hip.

As Serge approached him he was glancing about the square aimlessly, stroking the dust from his hat without thought. He saw Serge and, standing straight and tall, said:

"Greetings, child, from the empire of Porre. I am Gaheris, captain in the El Nido division of the Porre army. I am here to apprehend a dangerous criminal come lately to these islands. Have you seen any strangers about these parts, boy?"

Serge caught his breath. He was about to say that he had not, but then realized that in his slight pause in answering the soldier would see the truth. He chose instead to give only half of it, and hoped thereby to seem as truthful as possible.

"Yes. Yes I did. A man with a sword and red hair? He was here earlier today, near the beach. He left."

It did not do as well as he had hoped. The officer was unconvinced, and clearly saw the lie. He looked keenly over Serge for a second.

"Do you know the penalty for lying to an officer of Porre is death, boy?"

Serge was speechless. He didn't know what to say now that his lie had been uncovered. He contemplated saying all that he knew, yet somehow felt that doing so would be very wrong.

But, thankfully, he was spared the choice. The man caught sight of something by the tavern. He drew out his musket and frowned. Indeed it was not Crono, who had hidden himself far too well. Perhaps it had been but in the imagination of the soldier, but whatever it might have been it gave him reason to begin walking in that direction. Serge stood frozen, feeling dread sweep over him.

But then something happened, the likes of which Serge could never remember having seen before. So swiftly that Serge nearly missed seeing it, Crono had leaped from his hiding place behind the tavern. Before the startled Porre officer could understand what had happened, Crono's sword was swept out and wheeling through the air as though it were a thrown knife. It narrowly missed both Serge and the officer, and embedded itself deep and quivering into the wall of another building far behind. It frightened the wits out of Serge, but the officer, as a man of battle, was quick to recover, and drawing back the flint raised his weapon at Crono. Crono, however, was too swift. He flourished a hand in the way of the officer. A sharp wind swept past, seemingly from nowhere, and, with a crack like a gunshot that pierced Serge's ears, a bolt of white lightning lashed from Crono's hand. Serge leaped backward a full pace, it startled him so. The officer, too, had not looked for such a thing. The branching tendrils split, then joined again in unison as they struck him full in the chest. The air trembled with the last echoes of the fading thunderclap, and then all was deathly quiet and still. The officer stood still for a second, then fell senseless to the earth. Serge, for his part, shook his head in bewilderment. His ears rung, and the flash still burned in his eyes. He could scarcely believe what he had just seen. True war magic? He had heard stories of sorcerers and magicians, but had only ever half believed them.

"Serge, are you alright?"

It was Crono, who had now run up beside him. Serge blinked. The shadow of the light was fading from his eyes and his ears no longer rung, and he nodded. Crono sighed, looking down at the man, saying to Serge:

"I apologize for that, but I couldn't well let him shoot me, as I am sure you understand. If this was my homeland, he'd have taken my sword through his heart; but to do so here would bring the wrath of the Empire down upon your village: a thing I would be loath to do."

Serge looked down at the stricken soldier. A chill swept through him, for the man appeared to be dead.

Crono kneeled down and put his hand on the officer's chest.

"No, he isn't dead. His heart is beating, at least. I did not really wish to kill him, as I've said, though maybe I was a trifle harsh; he will feel the pain of this for some time."

But despite whatever this Crono professed, Serge knew that it was still trouble. Dead or not, an officer of the Empire had been attacked, and the Porre military did not take kindly to such things.

He took a step backward as Crono stood again, trying in some way at least to distance himself from the event. Crono looked urgently about, then glanced at Serge with a hasty eye.

"Come, Serge! We must depart before more arrive. His absence will not go unnoticed for long!"

He grabbed Serge's arm.

"Serge, we must go, at once!"

Serge pulled his arm from Crono's grasp, and took another step backward, looking at Crono in disbelief.

"You did this! You go...leave! I'm not going anywhere."

Serge retreated a few more paces. Villagers were now gathering at their windows, curious as to the cause of the commotion. Serge was relieved that no one else had been in the courtyard to witness the event.

"Do you truly think that Porre will leave you alone now Serge, even if I leave? You lied to him," he pointed at the unconscious soldier, "he knows that. He knows you were helping me. Unless you want to kill him. I advise it, but I hardly think you would do so."

Serge narrowed his eyes at Crono, menace and hatred building in the gaze. Crono had brought this trouble upon his village, and upon Serge. It wasn't Serge's fault. Then why did he feel guilty and responsible? He had followed his heart, and had tried to help Crono. Yet it had betrayed him and led only to this. Now he would follow his reason, and no longer his feelings.

"I'll tell them the truth then. Leave, because next time I won't lie for you," Serge said calmly, yet with vehemence and anger barely masked.

"All right, if that is how you want it," Crono answered coldly.

He walked over to the far side of the square to where his sword still stuck in the wall of the building it had struck. Drawing it from the wood, he looked over his shoulder at Serge.

"You can try to forget but, mark my words, your heart will never let you."

He sheathed his blade and turned to Serge. Serge stood quiet, making certain his anger showed.

"Your past will overtake you," Crono said in reply, "whatever you may do to run from it."

Despite the malice plain in Serge's face, which he clearly saw, Crono smiled.

"Farewell... friend."

And, turning, he walked out the gate as boldly as he had entered the night before. Serge watched him leave, glad to be finally rid of that phantasm.

But by now a large crowd, likely half the village, had gathered in the square. Some were standing about the officer, trying to help him rise. The rest milled about, talking excitedly about what could possibly have happened.

"Serge, are you all right?"

It was Leena, who had rushed up from the beach.

"Yeah, I am...now," he said, glancing pointedly at the gate, where he had last seen Crono.

He was gone now.

Leena gasped shortly, seeing the soldier lying on the ground.

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you, when we're alone." Serge said quickly, praying that the officer would not awaken. Moreover, Serge didn't want anyone else knowing that he had any part in this, as gossip spread like fire in a village as Arni.

"Let's get out of here," he said to Leena, wanting nothing more than to leave the crowded square.

He took Leena's hand, and together they walked back towards the beach. But before they had moved more than a few steps, a harsh voice called out to him:

"Hey, boy! Where do you think you're going? Stop, or you'll have musket-shot through your heart."

Serge turned with a falling heart. The officer was rising weakly, aided by some few of the village-folk. His uniform that had been spotless before was now tattered and dirty, and a great blackened spot marked where the lightning had struck him. His formal hat was nowhere to be seen now, and his tossed hair hung in disarray from his head. From wherever it had fallen he had retrieved his musket and was now pointing it at Serge's chest, flint cocked menacingly. The villagers all took several steps backward to be well out of the way of the weapon. Serge, for his part, did not fear the weapon so much become angry at what was occurring. That idiot Crono had begun a dire problem.

"You're under arrest, boy. I'm taking you to Termina."

The villagers were aghast. A few attempted to argue on Serge's behalf, but to no avail. In the midst of all the confusion the village chief, an elder named Radius, stepped forward, and he, too, argued to Serge's defence, albeit with more vehemence and skill.

But Serge saw from where he stood that such struggling merely made matters worse. The officer's anger was rising by the minute, and he would likely have set the whole of the Porre army upon the village if he had been able. Serge knew what he needed do.

He looked over at Leena.

"Leena, I've got to go and straighten things out. Otherwise Porre will never leave Arni alone..."

Leena sighed. She knew the truth of this, but hardly wanted him to submit to arrest.

"Don't worry for me Leena, I'll be okay."

As he said it he didn't exactly know it to be the truth, however. Only a hope. He smiled at her, attempting to make their parting more pleasant. She weakly returned it.

"All right, but be careful," she admonished him, whispering in his ear: "Don't get them angry, and I'm sure they'll let you go. But I wouldn't trust them."

Maybe, Serge thought to himself, but there were others to trust less; perhaps here Porre was the lesser evil. Leena whispered him a fond farewell and stepped back.

By this time the entirety of village was in an uproar, from child to elder. In the very middle the officer still debated angrily with the chief, who was attempting now to explain the political results of such an arrest, in a vain attempt to help free Serge from his predicament.

Even as Serge strode forward to the two the chief was saying, in a darkening voice:

"Let us not forget that the people of El Nido outnumber your armies twelve to one. I would warn you against such thoughtless actions."

Certainly the officer was about to reply in kind with an even graver threat, and warn in his turn about the mighty warriors of Porre. Likely he would have tried to cow the irate chief through the memory of the myriad of weapons by which the Empire had subdued the peoples of the islands in conquest nearly two years before. But Serge spoke before he could, saying:

"I'm not hiding anything. I'll come along and tell you whatever you want to know."

The chief looked at Serge in bewilderment.

"Serge, they cannot do this to you! By the laws of their Empire, they cannot arrest you without proof of treason. The officer himself admits you did not harm him in any way. You have not done a thing meriting arrest," he said, casting an angry glance at the officer.

Certainly the chief knew the politics well, but such things are fickle at best, and even more so on colonies that lie at the far fringes of an empire. That Serge knew, and understood that the law of the Empire could be easily overlooked by those soldiers who manned the colonial garrisons. Such a small province as El Nido did not warrant any representation in the Senate, and in practice the governor and his occupation troops could do as they pleased, harrying the villages of the islands if they so wished it. The people would be powerless to stop it, and so the fragile peace that existed between El Nido and the Empire's troops was a dangerous thing to endanger.

"I haven't, I know. But..."

The chief nodded, understanding.

"This is very noble of you, Serge."

He looked around at the gathered people.

"We'll be praying for you."

And at those words the officer gripped roughly at Serge's arm and walked him out the gate. Glancing back, Serge saw Leena looking after him, waving farewell; but there was caring worry in her eyes, as might be well imagined.

What a cursed day, thought Serge as the soldier led him onwards. Dark dreams and dangerous brigands were no enjoyable thing to endure. Curse that fool Crono, he added in his mind. At least he had seen the last of him now.

(Last Edited August 17, 2004)


	4. Officers and Wizards

CHAPTER III

**OFFICERS AND WIZARDS

* * *

**

The trip to the harbour town of Termina was short, at least for a journey that traversed most of an entire land. Though it lay on the northwest, opposite Arni, the island was by most measures small, and they had reached the town by nightfall. The officer had kept up a swift pace throughout the day, despite the wound which, while not grievous, certainly pained him. He had not wished to pass the night in the wilderness with a prisoner to watch, and shunned the roads out of an unfounded fear of ambush. Serge, for his part, had no intent of escaping. What good would it accomplish as it was? He was turning himself in freely, in the hopes that his compliance might be of some benefit to him when the time came to defend himself.

The sun was just dwindling below the horizon as they crossed under the arched marble gate that marked the entrance to the harbor town. Long black shadows stretched far from the buildings, shrouding the abandoned streets in darkness. Before the Porre invasion Termina had been a lively city, and even nightfall had not been the end of the day during the dry seasons. But the curfews decreed by the Empire kept most everyone indoors after nightfall in these days. So it was that Serge and the officer walked down the streets alone, and only the darkness marked their passing. Serge glanced about, his fingers nervous at his sides. He had seen Termina many times before, both in the day and night, but on this occasion it held a certain menace.

The darkness, devoid of living things, weighed in on him as the lightless buildings stared ominously. And he was beginning to think the worse of his decision. Yet what else could he have possibly done, given the choices that he was presented with? Both ways were foolish, maybe: both that which he had done and that which he had chosen not to. Curse that fool Crono for starting this, he thought again. Wherever he was this night, Serge hoped that that self-important man was as miserable as he was.

"No resting, now. We're almost there," the officer said, and gave him a faint nudge. He had stopped walking without noticing it, and the officer was very eager to reach their journey's end.

"Sorry," Serge murmured, much annoyed by the man's impatience. Serge could have chosen to make things far more difficult; the least the officer could do was show a little kindness.

Their destination lay at the end of a long street, seemingly even darker than the rest. Blackened windows stared out at him from dark buildings to either side. The guardhouse was a large construction, but built inconspicuously in the same style as the surrounding ones out of white limestone.

As they approached the door the officer faced Serge and looked sternly at him, pointing his musket at Serge's chest.

"You've been awfully good up till now. Don't go trying anything at the end."

As bothersome as such talk was, Serge bore it calmly, in the full knowledge that there was no purpose in resisting, most especially now.

The soldier knocked harshly on the wooden door with a sound that echoed throughout the still night air. From inside a voice replied, angered by the sudden interruption:

"Whoever it is, go away! The guardhouse is closed for the night."

"You should treat your commanding officer with more respect if you don't want a court-marshal on your record," the officer said roughly in return, much frustrated by the rudeness shown by his subordinates. "It's captain Gaheris, returning from the south of the island. Now open this door at once, Lieutenant!"

The voice from inside did not respond. But moments later a click told Serge that a lock was being undone, and the door swung open.

"Alright boy, in you go," the officer said and pushed Serge inside.

The interior was dimly lit and musty smelling. A few candles threw odd shadows on the walls and, by their glowing light, Serge saw he was now in a small room strewn with boxes. In one corner sat a small table ringed with some chairs. There sat several more soldiers stoically playing cards, though one seat was vacant. The one who had sat there now stood near the door, which he had just opened.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir. I thought it was one of those cursed town children again, thinking it amusing to knock at our door and race away."

He paused, seeing Serge.

"And who's this? Don't tell me this is that dangerous outlaw from Guardia."

The officer laughed heartily.

"This child? Certainly he is not a prince. But I've got a fair guess that he's a collaborator with him."

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes at Serge, looking him over more keenly and, in a voice that betrayed a mild disbelief, said:

"Then if you say it's so, sir. But he appears to be only a village child to me."

The lieutenant then looked back at his captain once more and said suddenly, as if a forgotten memory had returned to him:

"But you yourself have a visitor, sir. He came in this morning asking for you, as the commander of the Termina garrison."

"I will see him later. I have my report to take to the governor at once," the Captain said in reply.

The lieutenant shook his head.

"Actually, I wager that's what he's here about. He refused to tell me his name or rank, but by his dress, I think that he's from the Imperial Guard. The Black Wind, or I'm a fool."

The captain frowned darkly, his face growing ashen grey.

"The Black Wind?" he muttered. "What in heaven's name are they doing here?"

The lieutenant appeared about to reply, but was interrupted. The door to another room opened with a faint creak, and in the doorway stood the figure of a man.

"To see how the emperor's loyal troops are faring, Captain. I'll take this boy off your hands for you. He is no longer your concern."

He said it with a voice that seemed to come from someone quite young, yet quite steadfast and strong willed.

The man did not move from the shadows of the next room, and his face remained veiled in darkness. This did not cause the officer any small amount of discomfort, and it was surely against regulations to hand over a prisoner so informally; but he hardly wished to dispute the matter with an officer of the fabled Black Wind, whose very name was spoken with a sinister edge.

"Oh, very well," he sighed, displeased, but even more frightened. The Black Wind had the power of the Emperor, and had the repute of ordering demotions or even executions with a word. And none could gainsay them in word or action: their commands were law. They were said to be the most powerful men in the Empire, save for the emperor or those that were part of the Porre Senate (though, in truth, their power held much more sway in the far flung colonies; in practice the generals and military had greater influence on the mainland).

Serge walked uncertainly towards the figure that stood motionless, and still partly hidden, in the doorway. And he paused, uncertain if he should so willingly surrender himself into the clutches of such a ruthless group.

"Come on in, you mustn't be frightened," the man replied upon seeing Serge's uncertainty, with a voice that showed far more friendliness than the captain had shown toward him. Serge had trouble believing the voice belonged to someone from the dreaded Black Wind.

Nevertheless, his heart quickened a pace as the man led him into the next room and closed the door softly.

This room was yet smaller than the other had been. It was indeed no more than four stone walls and a roof, with a lone table at the centre upon which flickered a single candle that only dimly lit the room. At this table sat only two chairs.

"Sit down," the man commanded.

Serge obeyed without question, and threw himself onto the small wooden chair.

The man before him did not sit, but remained standing, studying Serge carefully.

Serge likewise looked at the man, trying to decide what sort of person he had surrendered himself to.

He had now stepped into the candlelight and Serge could see that he was indeed young, no more than a few years older than Serge himself. Contrary to what Serge had expected from an officer of the Imperial Guard, the man had a pleasant face and, while he didn't smile, he was not openly aggressive either; he was merely stern. Unlike most Porre soldiers, he wore no hat on his head, and his short golden hair sat combed neatly to one side. As with the other soldiers his uniform was blue. Yet he also wore a black mantle with silver trimming, and emblazoned with a gold chimera crossed with a sword. This was the mark of the Black Wind. At his hip sat both a small musket and gold enwound sabre.

He placed both hands on the table and stared down at Serge.

"So, what have you to say for yourself, child? The Captain seems to believe you are a traitor and collaborator with the enemies of Porre."

Serge was slow to answer. He was unsure as what to say. The man frowned sensing his discomfort.

"Perhaps we have begun wrong."

He stood up again and began pacing around the room, still watching Serge intently.

"My name is Norris. I am the Captain of the Second Company of the First Century of the Imperial Guard. I have come here to El Nido from the mainland on an errand of great importance to the security of our Empire. And it is just this: a dangerous traitor recently arrived here from the mainland. But, from what I have heard, you may have already had the unfortunate experience of meeting him. However, perhaps we should begin in somewhat different of a way. What is your name?"

"Serge," Serge replied, seeing only now how dangerous the situation was. He had no wish to cross the Black Wind.

"Very well, Serge. Will you now tell me what you know of this?"

Serge thought for a moment. He no longer had any misgivings about telling of that fool who called himself a prince.

"Yes," Serge said.

"Good." Norris replied, finally smiling a little for the first time.

"Now, unlike those fools out there," he said and raised his hand at the door, "I can see that you are no traitor, at least not willingly."

Norris paused, letting Serge consider this for a moment.

"So please," he continued, "answer my questions as a loyal citizen of Porre."

Norris pulled up the other chair and sat down across from Serge.

"Firstly, I wish to know precisely what happened."

Serge related, in brief, of his first encounter with Crono. When he had finished, Norris frowned.

"He told you he came to _you_ for help? Do you, perchance, know why?"

Serge shook his head and said:

"No. He never had the time to tell me because the captain arrived."

Norris sighed, disappointed.

"Strange...then, you met him again this morning?"

"Yes. We talked for a short while. He called himself the prince of Guardia, or something like that."

Serge paused, wondering what Norris would say to this.

But Norris simply nodded.

"Yes, good and well. Continue."

This was certainly not news to him, Serge realized in surprise. And he began to feel somewhat frightened again, wondering what it was that he had flung himself into, that led him into dealings with the Black Wind.

Serge slowly recounted the events that led to his arrest, all the while feeling his heart skipping nervously in his chest.

Norris sat silent in thought for a time. Finally he spoke again.

"So, Serge, you lied to the captain. Why was that?"

Serge sighed. This was the very thing, the very question, he knew must come and had dreaded from the time he had left the village.

"I," he began, but found words leave him. He gathered his thoughts, and resolved to say what he felt, and deal with what would come of it after.

"I don't know. Crono didn't seem like an evil person for one thing. And it seemed the right thing to do."

He clenched his fist nervously as heart pounded with apprehension. His words had been too blunt. He ought to have been more tactful. No one would find any merit in such an excuse.

But his fears were groundless. Norris, it seemed, did not fault him greatly for what he had done, but rather rebuked kindly.

"You are not the first to do wrong by following your feelings. You must learn to be wary of them in the future. They can deceive you if you do not keep your wits about you."

That he had learned all too well, Serge thought bitterly. He found himself shaking in relief now that what he deemed to be the worst was past.

"Moreover," Norris continued, "I doubt that even telling the Captain the truth would have made a great difference. Except, perhaps, to get you killed. This brigand Crono is not a man to be dealt with lightly. He has slain many honest soldiers of Porre, and is renowned the empire wide for his mercilessness. But something in this bothers me, and it is this: why is it that the Prince of Guardia would leave his own country and come to the west searching for you in particular? You have no idea why this might be?"

"None," Serge said emphatically, shaking his head.

But then he remembered something he had tried to forget.

What had Crono mentioned to him, on their first meeting in his room? About his dreams...some type of echo of his past? It still held no meaning to Serge. And what was it he had called him? A chrono trigger or some fool thing like that?

Norris sighed.

"Very well then. If that is all, by the authority of Porre I absolve you of any fault or crime. You are free to go."

But now Serge had ceased listening. His mind had wandered back to the evening before, and was thinking carefully on the event that he had had a mind to forget forever.

Norris frowned.

"Serge?"

Serge looked up, Norris' voice calling him out of his thoughts.

"Oh, it's probably nothing. Some strange talk about something or other."

"But this Crono is a strange man. He is a magician, and a cunning one at that. Even the slightest of his words may hold meaning. What did he tell you?"

"Well, he mentioned something about a forgotten past. And once or twice he mentioned something about a chrono trigger. I honestly have no idea what it means. I don't even know if it means anything at all."

Norris shook his head thoughtfully.

"Chrono trigger, was it? That phrase does sound in some way familiar, but vaguely," he said, beginning to mutter to himself.

He looked up at Serge again.

"Well, I do not know what he may mean about the past having been forgotten. But this other phrase strikes me as somewhat, though distantly, familiar. I believe I saw it once in the histories of Guardia: I will consult them when I return east."

Serge wondered somewhat at this chance that that word that he had puzzled over could have some true meaning.

"Oh," Serge said, remembering a something else as he shifted his thoughts. "He mentioned a chrono cross, too. I'm not sure what that means, or if it's even connected with the other thing."

Norris looked up sharply and, for an instant, it seemed that recognition crossed his face. But for only a second, and it faded leaving him frowning.

"What did you say?"

"Chrono cross," Serge repeated, hoping perhaps for some answers.

Norris closed his eyes, as if striving to remember something barely out of reach. But he shook his head as it eluded him.

"That seemed to strike nearer to my memory, but I cannot remember it now," he shook his head wearily. "No, it must be nothing. Deja vu, in all certainty. Well Serge, perhaps you have been of some help after all. I will attempt to decipher what these riddles mean, but your part is done. You may go now. But I must ask you to come to me here immediately if you ever see this Crono again."

Serge nodded and stood. Norris remained seated, and Serge heard him mutter under his breath:

"Curse that captain. If only he hadn't gone alone. And these damned riddles. If this is merely Crono attempting to torment me with fruitless chases again, I swear I will have his head by winter."

Serge stepped to leave, then turned to Norris one last time.

"Thanks..." he said cautiously edging in his words lest he disturb the man's half voiced frustrations.

Norris looked up at him and smiled.

"I serve the people of Porre, and that includes you. You were innocent, a victim of circumstance. I did my duty, and you did yours. No thanks is needed."

Serge shook his head.

"No, I'm really glad you understand and didn't throw me in prison or anything like I'd expected."

Norris was laughing somewhat at this, and was about to reply once again, but Serge never heard what he was about to say.

From the other room a mighty crash was heard, followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. Norris leaped up in a heartbeat, throwing his chair to the ground with a dull clatter. He heard the soldiers scream in terror from the next room. All of a sudden a darkness gripped Serge, and it seemed as if all light began to fade from before his sight...

"Stay back!" Norris whispered to Serge, and Serge's eyes snapped open. He couldn't remember having shut them.

Norris reached for the door and threw it cautiously open.

From the darkness of the next room one of the soldier stumbled, falling into Norris' arms. His face was pale and a wild fear was in his eyes. He collapsed to the ground. And now Norris as well began to pale, for in the next room stood such a thing as Serge had never seen before, not even in his darkest dreams. Dark and terrible it stood, and the darkness flowed from it. Norris, somehow, had managed to retain his courage and tried at fighting. He drew back the flint of his weapon and fired. But even as he pulled the trigger a lance of darkness struck him, and the shot went wild. Norris flew to the far side of the room and lay still. And now Serge was alone before this demon. But from some inner part of his heart he did not know existed a wild courage crept forth. Beside him lay Norris, unconscious or maybe dead, and at his side his sabre. Serge leaped for it, and his hand closed on the cold leather even as the dark being entered the small room with slow and heavy footfalls that sounded as though the feet were shod in metal. As it came for Serge he leaped upward, drawing out the steel blade and swinging for the monstrous thing. But, for all his valour, it did not avail him. The being carried a weapon of his own, a scythe of monstrous size, and the metal blade of Norris' sword broke asunder as it struck it, and the shattered metal tinkled to the ground. Serge's arms ached with the jarring force of the failed stroke. His heart beat madly, and he was sure his end was upon him.

Yet the figure paused. The darkness yielded somewhat, and Serge could now see it clearly. It was a man, or at least appeared to be. He was massive, and towered over Serge like a giant. His long dark cape billowed in some mysterious and darkly cold wind. Likewise his hair, a dark regal blue, fluttered out behind him like reeds underwater. In his gloved hands he held his weapon in an iron grip that Serge was certain could have crushed his neck without effort. But it was the face that frightened him most of all for, though it was not that of a monster, neither was it wholly human. The features were sharp, made even more so by the dark shadows that still danced about the room, and the face was slightly bearded. His pointed ears were nearly fay-like. And the eyes Serge could not meet for they burned red with a demon fire. Yet, though darkness was graven on the features, his countenance was not one of rage, nor anger. And he smiled.

"You're Serge, child?" the man asked.

The voice chilled Serge's heart. In its tongue echoed both cruelty and hate, though neither directed towards Serge. They seemed to be, as with his un-human features, merely a part of him.

"Yes..." Serge said, fear making him reply. And again the man smiled.

"Ah, very well, then. Let us go. We are expected."

Serge had seen quite enough. Neither his heart nor his mind could fathom what had transpired in the past day. And now, standing before a man that seemed for all accounts akin to the grim reaper of myth, they despaired. His eyes grew dim, and he fell heavily to the floor, drifting into forgetfulness.

When Serge finally awoke, he saw he was no longer in the building he had been in. He could not see well, for his eyes were still clouded, yet he knew he was outside somewhere, as a chill wind swept through his clothes. He shivered in the cold, kneeling on the icy ground. Unable to see well yet in the darkness around him he groped about. At his feet was long grass, but no more could he discover. Soon however his sight cleared. It was indeed still dark out, and the moon shone like a leaf of silver in the starry sky. Its gleaming rays of soft light illuminated Serge's surroundings with an eerie vagueness, sending monstrous shadows everywhere.

He could see he was in the midst of a clearing, round which the palm trees sat swaying in a soft nighttime breeze. He narrowed his eyes, attempting to see the area about him clearer. In the far distance the shadowed form of a fortress sat silhouetted in the moonlight. Fortress Dragonia? It was the only true castle in the El Nido islands, but only an old ruin seldom visited. In myth it was fabled to have been raised by ancient dragon lords, and from that legend had sprung its name.

Yes, that's were he was. Strange as it was, for the Fortress was many miles east from Termina. But there was no mistaking it, even though it was no more than a shadow in the darkness.

Serge looked about him. He did not know how he had arrived at this place, however. There was no sign of any living creature anywhere.

He rose, his limbs aching with pain. The past day had been far more trying than he had been used to.

"Well..." he said to himself, "...what do you do now, Serge?"

"Follow me."

Serge started, his heart nearly missing a beat as a voice spoke to him from behind. He turned, a sudden rising wind whipping past his face. And it was as he had feared. Indeed, he had not lost the demon that had stormed the guardhouse. Though now he seemed less to a monster and more as a man. Though the moonlight yet cast a ghostly hue on the grim face, and he seemed no less mighty, it seemed more the strength of a great lord than of something evil. The raiment, at least, was certainly not of shadows: he wore robes and a mantle of what appeared to be black silk embroidered with gold weaving, fastened here and there with gems or other costly adornments. In some strange, almost ancient, style he wore jewelled rings in his ears, and threads of silver were enwound within his dark locks. It did not allay Serge's fears, but merely replaced them with another: this man was a sorcerer. But before he could think more on the matter ,the man spoke.

"Apologies for that, but you fainted on me. I suppose you are not as brave as I had been led to believe..."

Serge felt slightly angered by this, especially due to the fact that it was probably true, seeing as he had fainted.

"...I carried you out of Termina a ways so those damned soldiers couldn't find us. Not that I fear them, certainly, but I have been commanded not to slay any of them if it can be avoided."

He said this with frustration, and Serge shivered with the realization that he was lamenting not being able to kill. He was immensely glad that this man's bloodlust was not directed towards him.

The man folded his arms across his chest, his eyes resting on Serge intently.

"But I would suppose that you now wish to know who I am," the man said sharply.

Serge scowled.

"Yeah, that, and a lot more. Like: why in the world you're doing this to me? I mean, why me? Can't you just leave me be in peace?"

The man frowned sharply.

"You seem to have a slight grievance. You should be thankful that I aided in your rescue, child. There are many who would consider that itself a supreme honour."

Serge nearly choked.

"I was fine! They let me go," he looked anxiously about, thinking that he was perhaps the prisoner of this man, "unlike now. And what do you care about me for, anyways?"

He was beginning to suspect this man was somehow connected to Crono. And, though he resented that, the words of Norris returned to him. The question of why he should be so sought after.

"I care, because I owe you a debt, and so am bound by honour. If not for that, I should not worry myself with your fate."

Serge was starting to be less frightened by the man now. If nothing else, he did not seem to be acting maliciously towards him. And if he thought that he owed Serge a debt, that was all for the better. His only desire now was to return home to Leena.

"Well, whatever I did, you can forget it," he said, turning his back to the man. "Pay it back by letting me go. I'm going home now."

But before Serge could go far he felt an iron grip close tight on his arm.

"Go home? To what will you return? Nights without sleep whilst your dreams haunt you without mercy? Do you not want your questions answered?"

Serge wrestled out on the grip and turned, backing away.

"I did once, but now, well, I frankly don't care," he said vehemently.

The man's eyes glinted darkly, and Serge could tell he had angered him. His mouth moved as if to reply, but he spoke no words. The man stared at Serge, and fear entered Serge's heart once again seeing a darkness gathering in his face. Perhaps he had been too forceful...

"You will care!" the man growled. And he reached forth a hand, and from it dark light lanced forth. Before Serge could comprehend what was happening it struck him in the legs. The pain burned in his knees and he fell forward onto the grass ground, his hands clutching at his injured legs. He glanced up only to see another ray strike out towards him. He gritted his teeth in agony as the magic struck his face. It felt to his mind as if he had been both scorched with fire and frozen with ice alike. But it only lasted for a short moment, and he found his lips tasting the dirt, the harsh field grass scratching his face. He struggled to stand, his legs burning with a strange cold that seemed to drain their very energy. But he could get no further than his knees; he was once again struck, this time in his chest. Tears welled up in his eyes as he lay on his back and struggled against the pain. Yet despite it he managed to painfully rise. He could see wispy mists of smoke rising from his body, hazy in the silver light of the moon.

The man stood before him, a figure a fear once again...but now also a symbol of hate to Serge. A fury kindled in his heart. And then the man laughed, mocking him.

"Ah, look at the worm crawl. How amusing. I had heard that you were courageous. It seems that I had heard but fairy tales."

Now the smouldering wrath welled up in Serge's heart, and grew to a fury. In some unknown recesses of his mind, a locked door shattered. And something that had remained hidden from beyond the walls of time was released. In his anger he did not think about what he did, for it came to him as a flash of remembrance of something long forgotten. He stretched his hand toward his foe, his fingers outstretched. And then a point of incorrupt light welled up in Serge's palm, flickering softly as if it were a new born star. Yet, for some strange reason that eluded him, it was neither frightening nor shocking. It simply was as it should be, as if nothing might be more natural. The light grew swiftly for a heartbeat, the wavering became steady, and then, faster than thought, it flashed forth and struck the dark man with a flash that lit the field like lightning. Serge heard the man cry out hoarsely in sudden pain, and saw him fall backwards heavily, clutching a hand to his chest where now burned a great dark spot. And then Serge acted on a sudden instinct that overwhelmed him. Though he could not fathom why, he knew what he was doing, as plainly as he knew how to walk. He leaped for his prostrate foe who now, as Serge had been attempting moments earlier, was struggling to stand. But as he got to his knees Serge swept his foot forward in a vicious kick to his face that sent the man's massive body crashing back to the ground. And Serge was upon him in a heartbeat. Serge had no weapon of his own but in one sharp glace he saw that his foe carried at his hip a small sickle sharpened on the reverse edge. The man reached for it in alarm as he saw Serge's eyes alight on it, but Serge was the faster. Before the man could reach it, Serge had drawn its curved blade from its sheath and gripped it tightly in his hand. He pressed the gleaming blade to the man's neck, Serge's eyes daring him to move.

But the man did not move; indeed, he did not put up a struggle of any sort. He lay unmoving for a moment.

Then, to Serge's amazement, he smiled.

"Now that was well done, Serge. Few there are that could have bested me so," he said with a small laugh.

He coughed as he spoke, still suffering from the vicious blow Serge had delivered him. And blood trickled from a gash in his mouth where he had been struck.

"And now, let me stand," he said wearily. "I will not hurt you nor attempt to stop you any further."

Serge frowned, but his heart seemed to instinctively trusted the words, though his mind proclaimed them false. Divided, he chose on the side of caution.

"Yeah, right. And then when I turn my back you kill me. Do you think I'm a fool?" he muttered angrily.

The man scowled and attempted to shake his head, but thought the better of it with the sickle blade still pressing sharply against his throat.

"Enough of this foolishness, Serge!" the man cried. The voice echoed menacingly in the still night. But from somewhere Serge had found a hidden courage, and even that seeming hell spawned voice did not daunt him. He shook his head.

"I just want to go home, and have you people leave me alone..." Serge said between his teeth, angered at the man's sudden outburst.

The man sighed.

"If you will not see reason, so be it."

In one swift movement of his arm, almost faster than Serge could comprehend, the man grabbed fast the arm in which Serge held the sickle. Serge twisted but could not shake the iron grip of that hand. The man stood again, pulling Serge up with him. Serge tried his best to strike at the man with his free hand, but it was swiftly caught before it hit. The man sighed.

"You young fool, what are you trying to accomplish by this? I am not your enemy. It is my will to aid you."

Serge struggled in the grip, grinding his teeth in effort and anger. But the grip was firm, and Serge realized with a shiver that the man had been but toying with him earlier, letting him have his way for a while; whatever harm his efforts had caused, it had been less than it had appeared, and this dark man was hardly worsted by it. Serge glanced fearfully at him, but with his anger rising all the same.

"By killing me? Is that what you want?" he said in a peculiar mingling of fear and wrath.

With almost superhuman strength the man flung Serge to the ground at his feet.

Serge rose at once, the sickle blade still shimmering deadly in his hand. But rather than fight, or make some try at defence, the man stepped backward a pace. And Serge , for his part, paused, seeing that perhaps this man truly did not wish to fight. The man shook his head with a frustrated sigh and wiped the blood from his mouth.

"Do you not see it, even now, child? You are no mere fisher boy from some insignificant village."

"What else would I be?" Serge replied angrily. He was tired of mysterious people telling him that he was something he knew was not.

The man laughed.

"And I suppose it is every village fisherman on this isle that are so masterful in such sorcerous ways, then? A fine aid in the day's work, perhaps to quell an unruly catch?"

Serge paused half a moment, bewilderment coming into his mind. He had half forgotten about what he had seen himself do. Something that not all his reason could explain. He frowned at the man, reading his eyes.

"You wanted me to do that, then?"

The man nodded ever so slightly and bowed slightly with a smile on his lips.

"But of course. To prove to you that you are something more than what you think, so that you might believe me. I did nothing there but spur you on. The light and magic was your sorcery alone. It is a skill you once possessed, but long ago forgot."

Could this man be speaking the truth? Once again someone was telling him that he had forgotten something. But now the answers were near. He simply needed to ask the questions. Perhaps he had been wrong in condemning his feelings.

He had to give it a chance. It was no longer the strange words of some phantom and dreams that haunted him. He had seen himself do a thing that he could not by his own reason explain. He nodded to the man, and dropped the sickle from his grip, hoping that he was not making a grave mistake in doing so. A keen excitement welled up in his heart, now unbound from its fetters. Perhaps it knew more than he did.

"All right," Serge said. "All right, I'll give you a chance to tell me. But one thing I want to know first: Was it that swordsman that sent you?"

The man nodded.

"You speak of Crono? Ah, in a sense. Rather, we were both sent on the same errand, if you will. That is a perhaps a more fitting way of saying it."

"Okay, I thought so," Serge said with a knowing nod. "Now, well, you can probably guess what I'm going to ask: what is this with me? I've got strangers in my window, and I can do things that I didn't know I could, and..."

But the man silenced him, raising a hand.

"She wished to tell you this herself, but I think it may be better if I tell you something of it here. You have enough right to know a little, at least, before you meet."

The man took a breath. The stars gleamed overhead, and in the quiet of the night the man's voice spoke clear.

"Very well, Serge. I will tell you why I owe you..."

(Last Edited August 17, 2004)


	5. The Muse of Forgotten History

CHAPTER IV

**THE MUSE OF FORGOTTEN HISTORY

* * *

**

Long it seemed to Serge before the man spoke again, though in truth it was only a few moments. And so he began:

"Firstly, you should know who and what I am. The annals of history record my name as Magus. A foul name, that by which my enemies call me in fear, yet not my true one. I am Janus to all that know me as a friend."

Serge looked at him, disbelieving what he heard. It was certainly impossible. The one known as Magus had been an evil sorcerer on the mainland more than four hundred years earlier. Even in El Nido rumours of those stories were yet remembered, for a bloody war had been waged against the sorcerer by the kingdom of Guardia, till at last he and his Mystic legions were defeated by the timely stroke of a hero. There were no answers here; the man was mad. But whatever else he was, he was discerning, and saw well Serge's reluctance to accept his words.

"Believe me Serge, I am indeed that accursed wizard that the stories tell of," he replied, a bitter remembrance evident in the voice. "Accursed, indeed. I trust that the tales speak much evil of me, and of my armies of Mystics that I led in war against Guardia...not without some truth, I admit. But, no matter, that is even to me a long time ago. What they do not tell is that my story began long years before that," he paused, considering his words cautiously, it seemed, "yet, perhaps we should leave that for another time; we are talking about you, not me, after all."

So, finally. Serge's impatience had been growing apace, and he hardly cared for who this person claimed that he was. After such words he feared all the more that this man was mad but, having seen his dark power, he humoured him.

The man Janus paused.

"Do you care if we travel while we speak?" he asked.

"Sure, whatever..." Serge muttered. He simply wanted to hear what this man had to say so he could return home, and not have to worry himself with people appearing in the night again.

They strode towards the distant forests at a steady pace. Now that his anger had cooled Serge once again felt the chill of the wind. And in its whisper he wished above all else to be home.

"You haven't answered my question yet, Janus," Serge noted, somewhat frustrated.

"No, I have not," Janus replied, not caring to look over at Serge. The distant dark forests were nearing now.

"And though you may begrudge me for this, I'll only give you a short answer now, as the whole truth is not so simple, and weaves together many more things than you alone. It would mean telling a tale spanning many ages. But to answer your question, I will give you the most simple answer possible, Serge..."

He paused, placing his words carefully.

"In truth Serge, though you have forgotten it, you were once counted one of the greatest heroes this old Earth has ever known, and perhaps shall ever know, even until its end."

Serge stopped. Janus took a few more steps then, sensing Serge no longer at his side, turned.

"Serge, let us keep moving!"

"Fine..." Serge muttered, and continued his walking, pondering what Janus had told him. He found it ridiculous, mostly. And yet again, it seemed to bear some strange truth that he could not understand. Somehow the will of his reason was slowly beginning to yield, and the strange wisdom of his heart, which yearned to know what this man knew, grew. But the former still had the greater share of his mind.

"Janus, that's nonsense. Me, a hero? How do you explain that?"

"By your own memory, Serge. Crono has told me that you are plagued by dreams. They are your memory struggling to be remembered. For, just as Crono and I once did long ago, you saved this Earth, perhaps time itself, from being doomed. And, in so doing, you saved someone whom I had long searched for. Someone quite dear to me."

Serge still had not the slightest idea what Janus was talking about. Had he not been in the middle of such strange circumstances he would have dismissed the words as the ramblings of a madman, in spite of the strange feelings of excitement in his heart. But now...what could he trust in?

They finally reached the forests. Here dark shadows reigned, shrouding the paths beneath the cover of the trees in pitch darkness. Serge did not mind the night, but this forest seemed almost menacing, but perhaps that was only his mind. Janus, for his part, seemed to have no trouble with the darkness, and his eyes even seemed to shimmer all the more in the blackness. A being of the night, Serge thought with some fearful discomfort. The palm trees creaked, swaying in the gentle wind. Shivering, Serge continued the talk.

"Janus, I'm sorry. I really can't believe you."

Janus sighed.

"And why not? Is it so hard to believe?"

"Well, yes, it is. I'm no hero, I know that. You said it yourself: I fainted back there!"

The dry leaves and twigs snapped and crumbled beneath their steps, the only sound heard between their breaks in speech.

"Yes, you certainly did. But, then again, you are not who you once were. You were fearless and daring, or so I have heard. A pity: you seem to have forgotten your courage with your memory. It is ever lamentable when the mighty fall into weakness."

Serge stumbled on a root in the darkness.

"But none of this can be true!" he protested, steadying himself from falling.

"And why not?" Janus said, and his voice seemed to show a certain weariness at saying this again.

"Why? Because I've lived in my village for my entire life. I've never been away more than a few days. And that was for errands or fishing; I don't even have a sword or bow. I can't be the person you're talking about. Trust me, you've got the wrong person."

Janus shook his head.

"You are the one. I am not wrong. But I will concede that your answer is true...if you think of time only as you know it to be, an unchanging and ever-flowing river. But I myself have seen many ages of this planet, from the ancient times of the dragons, to the magic and majesty of Zeal, even to the far future, the very end of time. Do not believe for a moment that the world is merely as you see it. Things are seldom what they appear in passing and, as a wise man once said, there are more things to heaven and earth than even our philosophy has dreamt of."

Serge contemplated the words. Had he caught their meaning aright?

"You're not telling me that you've travelled through time, are you?"

Janus pause in his strides, the cold air sweeping through the dark trees and flourishing the long cape. He turned, and nodded solemnly, a slight air of nostalgia betrayed in his voice.

"Yes, I have. But that is not your tale. You remember things that never happened," he paused and laughed somewhat, "yet did. The answer to that riddle is this: when all was fulfilled, when your purpose was complete, all was restored to what it had been before by powerful enchantments. Those who were involved in those great deeds had their memory sealed, so that they might continue their lives as they would have otherwise. Only one, the one who sealed them by her sorcery, retained the memory. She it is who has told me and Crono these things."

Serge sighed, not comprehending much of was told him now.

"Uh-huh. Where are we going?"

"Not far. My camp is near..." he began walking once again, and Serge reluctantly followed.

"So, who is this person that supposedly did this to my memory?"

Even from behind where he could not see the man's face, Serge could tell that Janus scowled.

"You mistrust me even now? No matter, you will believe soon enough. The person I speak of is one whom you rescued from an eternal torment, whom you saved from a place beyond the bounds of time. Does the Chrono Cross mean much of anything to you Serge?"

Serge nodded as some vague sights crossed his mind. As much as his mind still fought against it, his heart seemed to feel truth in Janus' words, and it was that which kept Serge following him through the dark and foreboding woods towards what he hoped was the truth.

"Yeah, I guess it does..."

"Ah, you see. Your own mind finds truth in my words. Stop doubting my sincerity, will you! The Chrono Cross was...what do I say? I was not there, and know but what I was told. The person you saved should tell you this; she is waiting near, at my camp."

He pointed through the dark ranks of trees. Just visible in the darkness a small light flickered, as that of a fire.

"We're almost there. And then she will tell you herself. The last thing I will tell you is this: I am indebted to you for her rescue, because she is my sister, whom I have sworn to protect. Yet, I was unable to save her from the hell from which you rescued her."

He turned to Serge, still walking.

"And for that, I thank you."

Serge did not respond. He couldn't. He didn't know what was going on, and regretted following this man, for now his questions had been replaced with answers that had spawned even more questions.

"We are here," Janus said, breaking into Serge's thoughts.

He looked up, the firelight glowing in his eyes. There was the maiden who had crossed his dreams, and had seemed near dead in them. Yet here she was very much alive.

Even as the others, her clothing was not becoming of the climate. Long robes of faded crimson covered her, held fast at the waist and wrists by circlets of embroidered leather. Her face was soft and fair (and most certainly beautiful), with two eyes gleaming blue as a midday sky. Her golden hair fell back unrestrained far past her shoulders. And, although slight in both height and strength, her eyes seemed to betray a power that ran deep. Standing from the fire she turned and greeted them with a gentle smile.

"Serge! At last. I was nearly ready to swear that Janus had misplaced you."

She laughed lightly at this, but Serge himself could not reply, no less find it amusing. In a mysterious was he knew this girl. She had haunted his dream, and her face was strangely familiar. Yet he new nothing else about her, not even her name.

She sighed, slight disappointment crossing her face, and shook her head.

"Yes, I suppose you don't remember me. I had thought, and hoped, that you might. But my enchantment was far too heavy on you."

Serge was beginning to quite disconcerted, for this girl certainly seemed to know him, and spoke to him in a tone of friendship. Yet he did not know her, save out of a dream.

"Not even my name?" she said in surprise, disappointment crossing her features for a second time.

"Then there will be much to tell," she muttered. "Well, perhaps it will help. I am, or was, Schala, Princess of Zeal. But you knew me by the by-name 'Kid'."

It did help. The mingling of her face and name stirred memories in Serge that had lain hidden. In his mind he saw people and places, memories of far off times, return to him as if he had only just experienced them.

"Ah, you remember!" she exclaimed, the joy returning to her face.

Serge shook his head, not wanting to be too eager and still more than a little confused.

"No, not quite. I remember things that happened, I think. Maybe not. But whatever they are they don't mean much to me."

"Yes, I understand," the girl called Schala replied. "And they truly did happen. But now that you remember that much, I may tell you their story, and then you may understand."

She paused for a brief space, circled around the fire once, then began to speak again.

"Your story begins as mine does, in ancient Zeal...do not speak now, allow me to tell me your tale, and question me later," she added, seeing the questions rise in him.

"As I was saying, it begins in Zeal of old. A land of myth now, which I trust you have heard of in some guise or another. Yet it did exist, at one time, near to twelve millennia ago. My mother was the last queen of that kingdom; I was called Schala, and was her eldest child. For long ages had Zeal grown in power and glory, and ever its people desired more of knowledge and strength. Alas, in this lust they overstepped their wisdom, and in the time of my youth they, in their infinite folly, attempted to drink of the power of the demon called Lavos."

"Lavos?" Serge asked. The name held a meaning of tantamount importance, and he overlooked her request to allow her to speak in silence. As it was she was not angered, but nodded understandingly, then shook her head as with a foul memory.

"Yes, Lavos," she muttered. "An ancient enemy, who fell many ages ago from the darkness outside this Earth. From which corner of the unending universe, who can say? But this is for certain: for long he slept in the heart of the earth, devouring it from inside, so that he might one day rise from slumber as sovereign tyrant of this world."

Serge nodded and understood. All this he remembered or, rather, returned to him as she spoke of it.

"But, as fate, or maybe destiny, would have it, all was not as this demon had intended. A band of young vagabonds, who by chance had fallen into the future, saw the ruin that it held. Thus came the first thread of discord in the strategy of the Demon for these few, having come to such terrible knowledge, vowed that they would undo the dreadful future, or give their lives in the quest. Chief of these was a peasant child who called himself Crono."

From the shadowy woods surrounding the fire the figure of the Crono stepped.

Serge for his part eyed with suspicion.

"So it's you again, is it?" Serge asked.

"Yes," Crono replied, "and a more welcome meeting this time, I hope. My apologies for my tactlessness; the years have been too hard on me."

But Schala interrupted the words.

"Crono, this is my speech now. You can make amends later if you wish, but first I will tell him what he must know."

She returned her gaze to Serge, shaking her head.

"Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Crono, drawing to his side many of the greatest of the warriors of this world that he met upon his travels, determined to put an end to this menace. By magic and craft they travelled through time, attempting through the ages to find some way of destroying Lavos. At last they found their way to glorious Zeal, ten thousand years in the past. There I was crown princess, but the darkness had already fallen on my people, and their doom was but a day away. They awakened Lavos, in a foolish and vain attempt to gain immortality, and were destroyed. To my shame my mother was the chief of these, for her mind was corrupted by Lavos. As I have said, into the midst of this time of impending doom came Crono and the others that were with him. A fine confusion of crossed times it was, for my brother was there as well, twice over," she nodded at Janus. "One was the child prince that was my younger brother in Zeal; the other come from the future, even as Crono, and in the guise of a prophet. An unlucky chance, maybe, for this elder future of my brother held bitter enmity against Crono."

Janus stepped forward.

"But you do not tell all, sister: I desired my vengeance on that creature for, in arising, he not only ruined all that I had called home, but winged me into the future, to six-hundred years after the birth of Christ, by the common reckoning; that is more than four hundred years ago now. There I was raised by the Mystics upon the eastward isle of Medina. By their ill-teaching I learned the arts of sigaldry and enchantment, and became the Sorcerer that legend still speaks so darkly of. Yet I detested the ways into which I was brought, and bore no love to those who had raised me. But at needs I served them and, in due time, came to command them. I increased my power tenfold, and more, so that none might stand before me and live, and ever endeavoured some way to destroy that evil creature that had wrought this wicked life upon me. And then fate's hand took me again, and cast me to the time of Zeal, even at the very hour of her ruin..."

"Silence!" Schala cried suddenly. "You wish to tell the story, Janus? But you don't know it all. So let me finish. But as it is, my brother speaks truly. And even as I told you a moment ago, he was the bitter enemy of Crono. But greater than their feud was the desire of both to destroy the evil of Lavos. Yet no strength, not that of Crono, nor even of my brother, could avail against that ancient power. Both failed, and in the ruin and loss that befell Crono perished, so that the others of his company could flee."

Serge's gaze darted to Crono. He seemed very much alive to his eyes. Yet whenever were ghosts what they appeared?

Schala smiled.

"No, Serge, he is neither phantom nor spectre. His heart beats life-blood through his veins, for he was fortunate to have faithful companions. It is a long tale, and does not concern us now, but so much I will say: it was by virtue of a Time Egg of ancient Zeal that he was resurrected. But my tale wanders. For Crono was not alone in suffering when that disaster befell. All of Zeal perished, falling from its hallowed place amongst the clouds into the sea, laying waste the lands beneath. Due punishment, perhaps, for its sins of arrogance and unholy ambition. And as for me..."

She paused, and with a profound sigh she looked to the earth, as if recalling a dark memory, for her brows furrowed as though in pain.

"Truthful, I cannot even now understand these things. In time Crono stood at his last battle with Lavos, and slew him. In doing so the evil future was banished, condemned to the Tesseract, where things no longer fated to happen lie. Yet I had already fallen out of the line of fate, for I too had stood at the ruin of Zeal. I knelt upon the floor of the Ocean Palace as it crumbled about me. And however it might be, whether by chance or the craft of Lavos, I fell into that abysmal Tesseract, wherein there is neither order nor meaning. But life there was, even there. For the dark shadow of Lavos, condemned to the selfsame prison, happened upon me. Whatever my strength, it was the stronger, and bending my soul to its will it became mightier than aught else, man or demon. And in so doing, we had the means by which to escape our prison, and destroy all the worlds in our wrath."

She paused, and Serge thought through these things for a time. Yes, they were most certainly true, or at the least had been told to him at one time before. At last Schala spoke again.

"And so we come to the true beginning of your tale. For all hope was not lost. Another tale began itself, when you were in your youth afflicted by the venomed bite of an accursed panther."

The story of that Serge knew all too well, for it had been many years before, when he had been only a young child. It had been a dire wound, and his father had sailed to the far island of Guldove to find healing for his son. But it had been too potent a venom, and only the skill of the physicians of Marbule, the great Demi-human island to the southwest, could hope to save your life. On that voyage his father Wazuki sailed with his friend Miguel, Leena's father, by his side. But fate was against them: sailing into a great storm that arose suddenly, their course went awry."

To which Schala added:

"The story of that day is the beginning of your high adventure, Serge. And now I will tell you of that tale."

Some evil darkness rested upon that day, beneath the shadows that clouded his memory. And even as he thought this, she continued:

"As I have said, both your father and his friend, bearing you, were caught amidst a great storm. They weathered it, for they were master sailors. But, in saving themselves from sinking, they by chance were cast ashore in the Dead Sea."

The Dead Sea. It was an evil name, and even darker to his memory. He nodded for her to continue. Though the memories caused him some grief he took joy in their returning to his mind, as one long absent who returns home.

"Here they found the great secret that is the El Nido Islands: the citadel called Chronopolis, the 'city of time' in the tongue of the old Greeks. And apt name, too, for it was a city of the future, taken to the past, and built upon machinery that shall not be discovered for many hundred years yet. That is in itself a long tale that I will not attempt now. But what is of importance is this: they entered the city, dark and without light, for the storm had caused difficulty amongst its machinery. Empty though it appeared, a will was yet awake; and this was the will of the Frozen Flame. The Flame was an artifact of great power, and holds the essence of the demon Lavos. In Chronopolis it had long been guarded and studied. By its mystic means, it healed you, for what reason, I cannot fathom. It was by nature evil, and the endfruits of such things are not often good, or at least the good is tempered with evil. And so it was here: it sought to ensnare the minds of the other two, your father and his friend. One, your father, slipped narrowly from its grasp. Miguel his friend did not. And at the very moment as your father broke from the gates of the city, the guiding will of the city, the computer called FATE, awakened again."

Computer? It was an odd word foreign to him, and thought it over. It was complex machinery of some sort, he decided.

"This was fortunate chance," she continued, "in some ways, for in the long years since its making this computer had been corrupted by the lingering will of Lavos, the very same that brooded with me in the Tesseract. But fortune scarcely remains good for long, and it turns quickly. The Flame was evil, and so it ever sought evil to do. In time it destroyed your father. You lived, however, for destiny called you to other things. Of that I will speak in a moment, but first of the storm: it was not a mere chance, nor even a true storm of this world. It was born of my power which I possessed in the Tesseract, and the last corner of my soul that did not yet do the will of the demon. Ere the last of me was corrupted, I looked from that timelessness upon the world and, seeing you, knew that here was one that could free me, if given the chance. But you were near death! I tried at saving you, but my darkening will turned against me and only did part of what I intended: it cast the boat in which you were ashore in the Dead Sea. And one last thing I did: I spirited away the last of myself, incorrupt, and hid it upon the earth so that it could be free from the demon and aid you. And so was born the child after named Kid."

She paused a moment, and then spoke again.

"And at that moment, I was lost. My soul became enslaved to the Lavos, and but one hope remained to me: the ancient Chrono Cross. And so your story truly began. FATE was wroth with you. Most incredibly furious, for a twofold reason: it knew that you might be the sword of its unmaking, and upon being healed by the Flame, that artifact would allow none near it, save you, while you lived. It sent its most dire servant, an incarnation of its own being known to all as Lynx, to kill you. This was ten years ago. And it should have succeeded, if not for the meddling of another: me. At that time I saved you or, rather, I will save you, for I have not done so yet: it is ordained that from the future I will journey back one last time, and save you from the clutches of that Lynx. And as needs be, the flow of time was sundered, split into two dimensions: one where you live by my hand, and one where you died by Lynx's, as was your true destiny."

"Why?" Serge asked suddenly. But he knew the answer even as she spoke.

"For in each world there was but one half of the Chrono Cross. To forge it, you needed both. I gave you this chance. But what of FATE and Lynx you may ask? You destroyed them, in time. The deeds of FATE were vile and deep, and were in accordance with the will of the demon. For this creature Lavos was cunning indeed, and perhaps even foresaw that Crono would destroy him. Chronopolis the Mighty was at first founded in the far future. But knowing that they would guard the Flame, the instrument by which he could return to this world in power, Lavos drew it near to himself, twelve millennia in the past. Thereupon FATE became a servant to the demon's will, and worked to assure the return of its master. It guided the fortunes of your people for countless years, until you destroyed it and its servant Lynx, and ended its reign of tyranny. Your battlefields were manifold: east and west, north and south, even upon the height of an ancient citadel called Terra Tower. Ah, but I speak ahead of myself. All this could not have been had you not been free to cross between the split worlds. I called to you, and pulled you from your dimension where you lived, into the other where you had perished. There you met Kid, my hidden self, and it was together that much of your adventure was accomplished. Certainly I did not know my true heritage then. Lacking a mother, Kid had been raised by the great scientist Lady Ashtear, a near friend of Crono's, and one of the heroes who defeated Lavos."

She paused here as Serge remembered suddenly that which had become somewhat apparent to him the night before: the dream that had plagued him.

"Ah, your dreams? Is that not it?" she asked, seeing his contemplation. "I had guessed it would be so. You were often foresighted in those days, and could glimpse ahead at what was to come. That abhorrent vision was among those that plagued you, and it appears did so even now, long after its fruition, as a memory rather than premonition."

She did not say more on that matter, but Serge at once remembered the full truth of the dream. It had been the darkest hour of his life, when he and Kid had come upon the creature Lynx in the Throne Room of the Dragons. Not all the dark sorcery that it held at its command could victor against the two, and so it had turned to the most vile of deceits: by use of an ancient relic, there in the very chamber of the Dragon kings, it had taken the souls of itself and Serge, and placed each into the bodily form of the other. With such evil guile it had turned on Kid. But being in Serge's form, and Serge being himself caught in a body wholly unlike his own, Kid had not seen it until it was done. So had Lynx struck Kid through with her own dagger, wounding her nearly to death, while in the guise of Serge.

After a moment of silence Schala continued in her tale-telling:

"And yet, for all that you did, it was but a means to an end. At length you learned of my near-eternal torment in the Tesseract and determined it was your fate to end it. Crossing the dimensions you reforged two splinters of the ancient dragon relic the dragon tear, and in so doing remade the Chrono Cross, as some have called it.

Again, he remembered. But now he could finish part of the story himself.

"And with it I travelled to the Tesseract?"

Schala nodded.

"Yes, by use of the Time Egg of the Master of Reason, Lord Balthasar." She paused for a moment, then said. "Lord Balthasar, perhaps the most cunning of men to ever live in this world. In antiquity he was one of the three chief counsellors of my mother, queen of Zeal. He was caught in the ruin, but as a few others, did not die; rather, even as my brother was, he was winged to the future or this world."

"Knowing of the power of the Chrono Cross, he played his skill and wisdom against that of Lavos. At times he let Lavos' will lie, at others openly contested it, and through this all guided your destiny. Certainly you did your deeds by your own will and merit, but it was Balthasar whose will guided your fortunes as his sword by which to destroy Lavos for eternity. How such knowledge came to him, I still do not know. But he was wise beyond the measure of most mortals, and to him the mysteries of the universe were a joy to unravel and learn. His final deed was to give you the greatest treasure that he had in his keeping, a Time Egg of Zeal. Three there were in the ancient world, forged in secret many years ago in Zeal by the Lord Gaspar, the Master of Time. He, too, was stranded in a foreign age when Lavos destroyed Zeal. And he still resides in that place into which he fell: the far End of Time, from where all history is laid bare before him, and he welcomes all those who become lost traversing the manifold roads of time. With this Time Egg you were able to pass through all dimensions, coming to the darkness between them, to the Tesseract itself."

Till then Serge had been listening quietly and patiently, his memory becoming more plain and clear with each passing word. Now he smiled. He remembered it all now, least to greatest.

"Yes, that's right. And, travelling to the Tesseract, I used the Chrono Cross to break the bond between you and Lavos. The Chrono Cross. Some called it the seventh element. It crossed through all boundaries..."

"And reunited Schala with the one you knew as Kid," Schala finished. "Now they are the same once again. Schala is Kid and Kid is Schala, and we are free. But, as is so often the case with such stories, things could not remain as they were. My magic was always powerful, even in Zeal as a young girl, but was even more so in that place. And so, though it pained me for I knew that you would remember naught of me, I sealed your memory, and returned you to your home."

Janus laughed mockingly.

"And you were too weak to remember all that you had done."

Schala cast him a mysterious glance.

"My power at that time was more potent than it is now. More powerful than even you can understand, my mighty brother. For all you know, you yourself could have stood by Serge's side, and have forgotten it."

He scowled at this, and retreated into the shadows with a turn of his cloak. But he muttered darkly to himself, as if wondering if there was not some strange truth in her words.

But whatever thoughts came to the wizard, they went unheard, and Schala continued speaking to Serge:

"All was for the best, I assume: You were returned to Leena, and I descended to the other dimension, where you had first found the vagabond Kid. But my heart would allow me scarce a moment of peace, and I needed thank you a last time. Moreover, I began to think ill of what I had done, and could not bear to have you remember nothing of me. It was a plan of many months, but with the aid of my brother and the third Time Egg, I was able to cross the dimensions. Yet the time egg works not as we will, but as fate does. And so I found myself on the shores of Guardia in the east. And who should I meet there but Crono, a fugitive in his own kingdom. Then I knew that this quest of mine to find you was fate intervening once again. Greater things were at hand, things that I could not help but have a part in. I promised to aid him in whatever way I could in restoring him his rightful title. For he did attempt to save my land once, and nearly died in that attempt. This is the least I can do for him.

Serge looked as Janus, tall and quiet as a shadow.

"And him? He's doing this too?"

Schala looked to her brother with a grim smile.

"Janus cares for few, and cares little about this. But he listens to me, and will help me, if I embark upon this. He wouldn't wish me going without him, at any rate."

Janus replied darkly from his shadows:

"That is not why. How little even you know of my ways, my dear sister. I have a debt to Crono, for without him I would have been unsuccessful in defeating Lavos as I had vowed. For this reason I aid him, and for the friendship that now lies between us."

Schala laughed.

"You have friends? I seem to remember you once saying that friends are the allies of the weak. That the mighty have servants, and no peers. Are you saying that you were wrong?"

"Perhaps I was mistaken, yes. But if nothing else I see war on the horizon, and never did I hide or flee from battle."

Crono shook his head, speaking up from his long silence.

"I did not say that, Janus. War is only my counsel of despair, and I will not embark upon it but at last need."

Janus paced toward Crono, not hiding disdain at these words.

"You never were a peacemonger: That is naive, and you know it to be so. War is inevitable, and to shirk from it is cowardice. But you are not a coward. Why then fear war, when your cause is just?"

"Why, Janus? Because I bear the responsibility of my people; if war begins, many of them will die, and no bravery will change that end. You know this. Don't play a fool, and try to bait me to anger with your words. But perhaps you were not unwise in what you said before: willingly or unwillingly, war may be the only course that arises."

He turned once more to Schala and Serge.

"And in guard of this I have summoned you from your peace, Serge. I am in a precarious crisis, now. If my hope is cheated and war is kindled, then your help will be much appreciated, for your power few would care to trifle with. Though, contrary to what you may think, I did not wish to disturb your life so. Indeed, I would not have thought to seek you out had it not been for Schala."

Serge looked to her, and she smiled with some apparent guilt.

"Yes. My sincerest apologies for that. It seemed to be a fine idea at the time, as I had intended to find you from the first. But I had hardly understood what an effort it would take to take you away from your village. I should have gone myself, but that cannot be undone now. Now here I present before you a choice, Serge. Do whatever your heart tells you, none of us will fault you for whichever choice you make."

"I might." Janus said, but said no more as Schala cast him a silencing glare.

"Do not mind Janus' idiocy. These are your choices: you may return to your village, to the one you love, and never need trouble yourself any more with us. Your past will remain with you as a memory, one that you now shall never forget. Your dreams will no longer haunt you, and you may live your life in peace, content with the knowledge of what you have done for the world and for me..."

Schala paused, giving him a chance to consider this.

"Yet I also propose this to you: that you may join us in our quest. I give you no guarantee of anything, neither life nor happiness, for we may well be journeying into a hopeless war. You will be in mortal peril if this is your choice, and be separated from your beloved for a time. But in this you will have the chance to be once again a part of great deeds, a chance that many wish for but few receive. This is why we have come to you, for your aid in our quest would be much welcomed, for you are of similar power to us, and a near peer in might. We go, with or without you. And I will not council you either way...the choice is wholly yours. Let your heart be your guide in this matter..."

Serge looked around at the gathered group: Crono, the steadfast hero that had preceded him in the struggle against the Demon; Janus, the sorcerer of old who had stood by Crono's side. Yet what were these two to him but names from tales? Never before this day had he met them, and the stories of their deeds he knew only as the beginning to his own. Yet the third was Kid, one whom he had trusted once with his life in battle. And this he still did, no matter what might befall. She would not lead him willingly astray.

Janus frowned gravely at him, his dark eyes commanding him to make a response, and both Crono and Schala eagerly anticipated his reply.

But he could give none, for his heart was divided in two, and the choice that was set before him was not light. Indeed it weighed on the scales of his heart his love for his home against his old hero's will. As it was, neither had the mastery. He could not now make such a difficult choice.

"Give me some time," he stammered. "I can't decide yet. I have to return home and think about it."

"The choice should be clear!" Janus said with a sigh and scowl. "Why should you wish to cower in this forsaken corner of the world when great deeds and war are at hand in another?"

"Janus!" Schala rebuked him. "The choice is his alone. Not you, nor Crono, and not even I should attempt to sway him either way. We must give him his time, or forego his aid."

She turned to Serge

"Go, but make haste! For we may not wait here for long. We are being hunted by Porre, and must soon leave these isles."

Serge nodded.

"All right. Come to me tomorrow evening, and I'll have an answer for you."

He looked across at them once more and, turning, swept off at a sprint into the dark forest, his footfalls leading him towards home.

At the last he heard Janus murmur to the others in the darkness:

"You give him time, but that is the one thing we lack now. We must move swiftly and quietly, and..." Serge heard him pause, and barely heard his last reply:

"Eternal curses! I think I've lost my sickle."

(Last Edited August 27, 2004)


	6. Choices of the Heart and Mind

CHAPTER V

**CHOICES OF THE HEART AND MIND

* * *

**

Darkness had gone, and the bright morning sun had replaced the moon and stars when at last he sighted his village once again. He could see the children playing on the piers, and fishing boats in the distance. For all accounts, it was as though nothing had happened out of the ordinary. A simple place wherein people led a simple life; that is what he loved about his world. Or what he had thought to be his world. Things were no longer the same. His legs felt quite strained from the long run, and so he now slowed his place to a saunter as he came into the verge of the village.

In truth, he gave little heed to whatever pains afflicted his body; he knew that more pressing matters were now at hand. He did not have long to make a choice, one that would be both a blessing and a curse either way. And it was for this reason, among others, that he sought Leena out first of all.

Coming to the beach, he found her gone home but several minutes before. Those present there were joyful to see him safe, yet he did not stay to recount the events that had transpired. He had not the time and, moreover, the happenings were too strange. Who would take him at his word?

He climbed the wooden steps to Leena's house with more than a little uncertainty resting upon him. Truly, Leena would be the first to trust him. And yet it seemed too much to ask even of her usual steadfastness. He much doubted that her friendship could bring her to blindly trust his word about these things: things of seeming fantasy beyond the ken of village people.

When at last he summoned the will to enter he found Leena was sitting in her room, facing out to sea. Yet even from behind where he could not see her face he could read her mood as solemn, worried and sorrowful. Certainly it was over him, and at once this warmed his heart, and made it all the easier to speak.

"Leena?" he said gently, not wishing to startle her too violently from her thoughts, which seemed to cloud the very room.

She turned face to him in a heartbeat, the anxiousness falling from her countenance in a moment.

"You're all right!" she cried with her first words, relief plain.

"Yeah. Well, in a way," Serge said brokenly, touched that she had been so anxious over his safe return, yet fully realizing that he was not nearly as well off as he might be.

"You didn't worry, did you? I told you not to," he said, attempting to lighten their moods.

She fixed a scolding eye on him, yet still unable to hide her joy over his sudden return.

"Of course I did! What kind of a friend would I be if I didn't?"

He smiled at her indignation, whilst she stood and frowned.

"I couldn't even get any sleep," she continued. "But that's not important, I suppose. You're back, obviously not under arrest anymore. Things are fine."

But inwardly Serge felt far less than fine. Those hopeful words made explaining everything all the more difficult. Seeing him well had put such reassurance upon Leena that it would be difficult on her to convince her otherwise.

But then another thought occurred to Serge: perhaps that was not truly necessary. Maybe no one but he ever needed to know of the past, such as it was. He could well refuse the summons laid upon him, and everything would return to the way it was before, just as Schala had said it may.

But then Leena continued and he saw that would be difficult, perhaps near impossible. For as her sudden relief abated from her, and she calmed in mood, her countenance became more stern and questioning, as was her wont when she willed something.

"But now, what about your promise?" she asked, and he sensed a certain resolution in her voice, a will that he had long ago learned not to trifle with.

"What promise?" he asked, but even as he spoke the words he knew her answer. Her memory was as sharp as it had ever been, he noted with slight vexation.

"To tell me what was going on. To tell me what happened to you. I don't forget that easily."

"Ah, yes. That," he replied with a certain discomfort. It was all he could reply then, for he now felt constrained to give the truth. And this was not something he much wanted to do, for it was no trifle to explain. And yet Leena's will in this he would not gainsay. She had a right to know, whether she believed him or not. Come what may, he would tell her.

"It's somewhat complicated," he began, unsure as where to begin. The webs of time that had transpired made finding the correct starting point most difficult.

"Try!" she stated resolutely, and with a hint of anger.

"All right," he said, resigning himself at last to speak of it. "Do you remember when we were at Opassa beach, a few months back?"

"You mean when you passed out? Look, there's no point in going back that far. I know it still bothers you, but what does that have to do with whatever happened yesterday?"

"It's where everything began..." he said uncertainly, but she spoke before he could say any more, with a certain impatience in her voice.

"Everything, what? Serge, I know what we said then, and I really believe what you said, but I don't think this is how we meant to look back on that day."

He shook his head.

"No, I don't mean that. I still mean what I said then," he added hastily, not wishing to belittle what she, likely, took most seriously. For she had recalled to him a vow of friendship they had made as small children. He felt that she had wanted to perhaps speak of something closer to her heart, yet she had never the chance for he had slipped unconscious before her eyes before much more could be said. And so he never heard whatever she had meant to discuss on that day, though he had often wondered and had faint suspicions. Therefore, cautious now of his words, he continued:

"Well, I didn't just faint. There was a lot more than that," he said, fixing a serious look upon her and hoping his earnestness might somehow avail him in earning her acceptance of what he was about to say.

"When I woke up, I asked about what happened to Terra Tower, and to FATE, right?"

She nodded.

"Right," she said, curiously, "but that doesn't mean anything, does it?"

She said the last almost hopefully, as if she feared what he might say, though she had no true way of knowing what it meant. But he nodded, smiling inwardly at what an understatement her words were.

"I didn't just blank out. I fell, or was pulled, maybe, into another world."

"Serge!" she cried in annoyance. "If you're not going tell me the truth, just leave."

He could well tell she was angered at what she clearly saw as a lie.

"Hear me out, okay? For all our friendship, let me finish. Trust me. Every word, no matter how strange, is true."

Still frustrated, yet yielding, she nodded.

"Oh, all right. But, I warn you. If you make up stories to get around telling me, I'm not talking to you for a very long time."

He began once more, cautious now of her rising temper.

"I didn't realize that I had been taken to another world at first. It was in most things identical to what this one is. I ran home, straight to you. But, what shocked me more than anything else could have is that you didn't recognize me."

He continued quickly, breaking between the words of protest she gave.

"Because I was dead there. That was one of the differences. In that world, I died ten years ago. Remember, when I almost drowned as a kid, but a stranger rescued me? Well in that world, I did die. But the worst was yet to come because, while I was lost in that world, I was being chased..."

And he told her of all that had happened. Of his adventures, his defeats and victories alike. Of his eventual return to his home world, and his crossing between them at will in order to amend the evils of the past. At last he told her how he had saved princess Schala from the Tesseract, and ended with the events that had chanced only the last day. All the while she listened quietly, with more patience than Serge would ever have accounted to her. Not until he came to the end did she finally reply.

"Serge, if it wasn't you, you know I would not have even listened, right?" she said.

He nodded, but fearing her response to be disbelief. And in this, they were realized.

"But, you want me to...to believe that?" she said disdainfully. "That's even more far-fetched than the fairy stories I tell the kids!"

He sighed, gravely disappointed, yet understanding her disbelief.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right, Leena. It was too much to ask of you."

And, having said this, he turned sullenly to leave.

Curses! He had hoped beyond reason that she, at least, he could sway to believe him as to the truth. Naive, indeed, he now saw. Perhaps it was best to simply depart from his village without any leave, and take company with those few who knew his true self. He would most certainly look regretfully on it later, he knew. But what was his place in this village now? A fisherman? He could not be that again. He was not who everyone thought he was: a simple fisherboy living a simple life. And he could never feel the peace he had once known, now being resolved as to his true nature. How could he, after all, live two lives: in action as the one he had been, but with his heart being that of another? He felt it would gnaw at his mind more harshly than his dreams had done, despite what Schala had said and, moreover, his hero's will felt drawn towards aiding Crono. With a mind weighed in grief over his failure to persuade Leena, and feeling that by his words he had lost her trust forever, he sullenly made to leave her house.

He thought that perhaps things would be better when he was once more upon the open road, for it seemed to him that that, only, remained to him. The village he had so long called home held nothing but a shadow of his former life, and one that he could never return to. Silently he cursed the day he had been ordained to be a hero. For, whatever good may have been done by his hands, it seemed that all it had now brought him was to be separated from those and that which he loved best.

Yet, even as he stepped outdoors she called to him, halting him in his tracks.

"Serge, wait!" she said, and her words became uncertain. "Maybe I was a little unfair to say it like that."

And at once he turned back, a glimmer of hope returning and the shadows that had been gathering upon his mind departing like smoke before a gust of wind. She looked as uncertain as he had ever seen her, yet, to his surprise and joy, there was not the least sign of anger.

"I know it seems strange," she began with stammered words, "but, well, here you are! You were taken to Termina. Crono is real, I saw him myself, after all," she continued, her words speaking the confused thoughts of her mind. She paused for a while, at last saying: "Yes, I believe you. Or I want to. I just can't bring my mind to."

He nodded, for it had been even so for him the night before, when Janus had first spoken to him. But even then another thought came to him: with her name and voice, Schala had broken the spell that had chained him memory. And Leena, too, had a seal on hers. Though she had not joined him on his quests and ventures, she had known of his comings and goings at that time. What better way to prove the truth of his words than by recalling to her her own memory of the past, as had been done for him? A seal only needed be broken, perhaps.

"Maybe your heart can convince your mind," he muttered, half to himself, and closed his eyes in thought. Perhaps, small though the chance was, if she saw his sorcery that he had once used with such ease, her memory would return. In no wise had she seen magic before, save in those times, and so in seeing a hint of the true past, her memory might fully return. He held his arm stretched out, palm upward, toward Leena.

In his hand a small light welled up, as if a star had been born on his very palm. It shimmered bright and pure, though no more than a pebble. He opened his eyes, and looked across at Leena. She stood entranced, staring with wonder at the light.

"Magic? How can you do that?" she stammered, in complete amazement.

In her eyes the light danced, enthralling her gaze and capturing her mind.

Slowly, as one in a trance, she spoke:

"The Chrono Cross...the songs of all the world combined in perfect harmony...go, do what you have to do, I'll be waiting for you..." she trailed off as the light in Serge's hand waned to nothing. Yet still her eyes remained fixed, and only with effort, it seemed, she raised them to his, as one awaking from a deep sleep.

"Leena?" Serge asked, hoping that his wish had been true, and she had now retrieved at least some memory that had been hers. Indeed, the words she had spoken but a moment before had been her last parting words to him before he had set off for the Tesseract to free Schala.

"Serge?" she clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a startled shout. "I remember now, I really do."

"Everything?" Serge asked cautiously.

"Mostly, I think," she said, amazement mastering her voice. "I remember you running around, coming back only every few days. Searching for the Dead Sea for some reason. Taking off to Terra Tower to fight the, what did you call them? Oh, I can't remember, but it doesn't matter. And of course that last time we spoke, before you left for the Tesseract. How could I have forgotten all of that?"

"Magic and ancient powers, Leena. The princess Schala sealed all of our memories, my own included. But I guess, since I was the one who did the most, mine were just too powerful to be kept hidden. And so they haunted my dreams, like you know. But it's all better now. I remember, and so do you."

But now he looked on her with new concern, wondering if it was best to ask her yet of leave for his departing. She had only now regained her true self, and now he wished to leave for some new adventure. A fool's quest some might call it: to aid two strangers and a one time companion make war against the mightiest empire in the world. And he had no guarantee of ever returning from it and, indeed, the chance was not small that his own death lay upon this path. At that thought he felt a slight fear, but quelled it as a coward's feeling.

But for now he needed make a choice, whether to go or stay, and if he chose to depart, he would first ask his leave of Leena. His innermost being told him that to shy from helping Crono would be would be a selfish thing, brought upon only by fear. And so he felt constrained to leave, and needed so ask his friend's permission to depart. But as the moments of silence passed between them, he felt that doing so was becoming far more difficult.

But he knew the truth of it all too well.

As much as he wished to delay asking such a question, time was pressing upon him, and waiting would not avail him in any way. And of all those whom he knew, it was Leena's wishes that he would most respect in this matter.

"Leena, I need to ask you something," he said unsurely.

She frowned, seeing his uncertainty.

"Yes?" she asked carefully, fearing what he was to ask.

"I have to go. I need to ask you if I can leave."

Misunderstanding the intent of his words she laughed, amused and relieved.

"Go? You have to ask me if you can go? Well, the door is right there," she said, looking in that direction. "We were just starting to talk, but if you really want to, I'm not going to stop you from going."

He shook his head, and sighed.

"No, I don't mean leave and come back later. I mean leave," he paused, not wanting to speak such words as he knew he must, "for a long time. I have to leave El Nido, and go to the mainland."

"What? How long?" she asked suspiciously, dreading the reply that was sure to come.

"A few months," he said plainly. "Sorry, Leena!" he cried, breaking quickly into her protesting words. "I don't want to. But, Crono needs my help."

"Yeah, and the princess Schala, too, I bet!" she returned, perhaps with a hint of jealousy, not taking the unexpected news well.

"Kid? She too, I guess," he muttered awkwardly. Schala was his best of friends, and so she had always been.

"But what else should I do? Just tell him, 'well, I can help, but I need to tend to my fish'?" he answered.

"Well, what about me? There's more here than your fishing, you know!" she answered in anger, annoyed that she had been seemingly overlooked in his deliberations (though this was most certainly not the case.)

"If you don't want me to go, I won't," he said sincerely. And he truly meant it as he said it. He held Leena as the one to make this choice for him, for he did not wish to cross her or cause her any grief.

And in this sudden thing Leena was surprised. She had hardly thought that he would be seeking her counsel on such a matter, and it caused her no small amount of uncertainty for a moment.

"You wouldn't go, if I asked you not to?" she asked.

He shook his head, and she in return sighed.

"Well, I admit, this makes things hard," she said with a hint of uncertainty upon her tone. She turned her eyes from him, peering out to sea. "No. I don't want you to go. I want you here, as you've always been. But also, that's very selfish of me, isn't it? You're a great hero."

"Not really a hero, Leena. Heroes are only the people that are remembered. No one remembers a thing that I did."

"I do," she said turning back to him, bringing a sharp end to his argument. "My Serge, the great hero of the world. If you think it's funny for you, it's even stranger for me."

She turned back to the window.

"Go. Just come back to me," she said, though it seemed with almost stifled tears that the words came from her mouth.

And now it was his turn to feel misplaced. Just as she had not thought him to so willfully yield to her, he had not anticipated she giving him her leave so suddenly. There was neither the anger nor vexation that he had expected. Only sadness.

"Well, of course I'm coming back, sometime," he said, hoping that his words would be proven true.

She turned about, her countenance in no measure pleasant.

"How do you know? Can you honestly tell me there is no way you might die out there?"

He shook his head. As Schala said, he had no guarantee of anything. Except, perhaps, the loyalty of friends. And, as a friend, Leena was now telling him he might go. Yet he saw another part of her did not wish him to leave, and was in fear over his safety.

"I might," he said, finding it strange to be speaking so lightly of his own death. "But lot's more will die if I don't."

She shook her head.

"Of course. But that will not make it better for me if you die."

She paused, and Serge did not reply, for he saw that in her mind she was contemplating the counsel she would give him. At last she spoke.

"Go, Serge. I don't want you to, you know. But, no matter what I want, you have to. If you don't, nobody else will, or can, I suppose. I'll worry about you every day until you come home, you know, just like last time. I probably won't get any sleep," she laughed weakly. "But, this is the sort of thing you were born to do, I guess."

Born to do, Serge thought. Perhaps it was. Leena, though she wished him to stay, saw beyond it to the need that called out for him. If she could allow him to go in spite of her unyielding will, then he, too, would cast aside his worries and step once more upon the path of daring adventure.

He wordlessly nodded his thanks to Leena, who he saw stifled some slight tears at all that had so quickly come between them. And so he left her to her own thoughts, having other duties to tend to before leaving.

For now another necessity was presented before him. Having been now resolved to go upon the quest by the one he cared for most, he now was constrained through honour and propriety to ask for leave from the leader of his village. The Chief Radius was in most respects a pleasant and kindly old man, and yet Serge did not see him readily granting leave to one he saw as only a small child.

----

"...so you see, they've come far asking for my help. Shouldn't I help them?" Serge asked, apprehensive of the coming response.

But he had said nothing of magic, nor of his high past that had been revealed to him. Only to Leena had he spoken of those things, and between them he wished it to remain.

Radius looked at him shaking his head, and said in a grave voice:

"Serge, child, you are so very young. There is much you must yet learn before you become a man. Are you so sure of these things that you tell me: That for some reason they require your help especially?"

Serge nodded in affirmation.

"Without a doubt," he said.

"Serge," Radius said gravely. "There are many things in this world that you know nothing of. Things of immense power, for both good and evil. Few there are that have seen the things I have in my long years. I cannot expect a young man such as you to even begin to comprehend such things."

He sighed, and a pained look crossed his features.

"Oh, I understand," Serge began thoughtlessly, but stopped as Radius gave him a bitter and condescending glance.

"Understand?" he muttered. "You are but seventeen, a boy fisherman who has seen in his life only a corner of this single isle, which itself is only a corner of the vast world. No, you cannot understand the ways of the world. Such knowledge and wisdom is found in the living of years and in the losing of dear things."

Serge looked at the man in thought, and inwardly he smiled sadly, understanding only too well. He had fought things that would have quailed the hearts of the bravest warriors, and outlived them, most often through the shedding of his own blood. He had looked upon the darkest secrets of the past, faced ancient demons, and seen the brightest mysteries of the future. And yet another thing that Radius did not know, or, rather, did not remember: in many battles he had stood by Serge's side, and had been both a steadfast comrade and wise in sage counsel.

"Perhaps, despite your knowledge, there is more then even you know to this world..." Serge said, but trailed off. His words, though true, were on the verge of disrespect. Radius saw this, and frowned at him bitterly, saying:

"And you claim have discovered its truths? That is one of the failings of youth. You are young, naive, and do not know what sorrow lies in this world."

Had he not? He had seen his friend Kid struck through with her own dagger, whilst he had stood unable to aid her. At these words of rebuke Serge could feel his heart well up in slight anger, but he checked himself, and guarded his words.

"I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect. But," he closed his eyes and sighed. He did not wish to explain all to Radius. His own memory, and that of Leena, had been restored, but he did not think it would be so light a thing with Radius'.

"The world is not all filled with sorrow, master Radius. I know not only what it's like to know pain, but love, too. I'm not as young in my mind as you think I am. These people I told you about..."

Radius stood, and shook his head in anger.

"You have asked for my leave, Serge, but I cannot give it to you. You lack both the power and the wisdom to set out on your own."

And with those words the elder strode for the door of his house. Serge did not turn to watch him go, but stared sightlessly forward. In his heart he was angered by these words that sought to constrain him. Leena had granted him her goodwill in his leaving, and in so doing had sealed his choice. But now the one whom he had thought far easier to sway was the one that stood barring the door to his path. The secrets of things high and base, of Radius himself, burned within him, yearning to be spoken, so at once he made his mind to tell his chief all these things. And if even then he would not grant Serge his parting grace, he would leave without it. The goodwill of Leena was what he had most cared for, as it was.

So even as Radius crossed the threshold, Serge called out to him once more, not turning from where he sat.

"Don't let the past haunt you. It was the evil in the Masamune, not you, that killed Lord Garai."

These words found their mark precisely. The footsteps halted at once, and Serge could well imagine the surprise upon the old man's face. For the words he had just spoken were of the man's darkest secrets which he had revealed to no one in memory.

"What was that, Serge?" Radius gasped, returning to the room.

Serge stood and turned to face the ashen-faced man.

"That ancient sword was filled with evil. But it's been atoned for, and neither of his sons will want their vengeance on you, master Radius, once a chief Captain of the Acacia Dragoons."

The man shook his head in profound disbelief.

"What do you know of those matters?! How come you to this knowledge?"

Then Serge laughed. For a moment, he was himself again. The one who had fought so many battles, and seen so very much of the world. The calm young warrior, fiery of heart, who had passed dimensions and defied the evil shadow of Lavos. The one whom some called a hero. Not the disquieted fisherboy he had been the day before. The flame had returned to his spirit. For now, he was master of his life once again.

And for that he smiled.

And he told everything that he could remember. Of the battles he had fought; of Lavos; and of the Masamune. When all was ended the chief stood long in silence. Indeed, he would not have believed a word of the tales, but Serge knew far too much of his past for him to doubt it. For, though his memory remained sealed, no living person, save one such as Serge now professed to be, could have known these things. At length Radius spoke again, his voice filled with concern.

"I must say, this is hardly what I would ever have expected. And yet, I cannot doubt its truth. And, as for you, Serge, I am most amazed. In truth I find it all very hard to comprehend but, perhaps this is not mine to unravel. But I see at least where my place in this is now. When I look at you, I hardly see that little fisherboy I have known so well through his entire life. I can see it in your eyes: a wisdom and a power I have only found in my peers. So, very well, Serge. If you desire to leave this village, you may do so with my blessing."

And with those words Serge's decision was made. For adventure, friendship, hope, and freedom, or whatever this quest was truly about, he would once more set out. By Leena's counsel his heart had been convinced, and by Radius' words he could leave the village in honour and goodwill. Yet, even so, he felt a slight nervousness begin to steal into his mind.

----

As the sun set upon that day, Serge was ready to leave. For the most part his farewells had been said to all that he knew. He now found himself hoping that they would not be final. Leena stood a short distance away, leaning against the wall of her house. She did not come to wish him off, nor did he go to her to say goodbye to her. To those one loves most, farewells need not be said with speech. And so he parted her company with not a word, only a final look gracing their parting. Her eyes told him all that he needed, far more than speech likely could, and they in that moment he remembered ever after, for long after much strife, and even until his death.

He slung his pack over his shoulder and made to leave. His mother and a few villagers watched him go, but for the most part his leaving was quiet and unnoticed. As he crossed out of the village, wondering as to where Crono would meet him, Radius took him aside.

His face stern, he looked at him as a father sending his child out to war. Concern written upon his face, he spoke to Serge.

"Serge, before you leave I must say some things to you. As a child of Arni, you are under my care. It is not with joy that I send you out of this trust, but I also know that you are old and wise enough to know what you do. And so I will speak to you what I may before you depart from this, your home," the old man paused, considering his words.

"It is often said of the old that they are wise, for indeed age lends experience and foresight. And this is often what wisdom is, a certain skill by which one may guess somewhat of the future. You are old beyond your years, and possess a wisdom of your own, but allow me to add to it what I may, before you leave us."

Serge felt slightly uncomfortable. Little heed had he ever had of other's wisdom, and he did not desire to be now whelmed in it. He found his heart fickle enough about his choice now as it was. Even so he was not willing to deny his chief his parting words, and so he listened in silence.

"First and foremost, I must admonish you to remember your place. Not that in this village you now leave, nor even that of your age, for indeed you are no longer a youth, as you appear to be. Your eyes speak much of this. But what I say is this: I warn you not to seek more power than is granted for you to possess. You are mighty, but you must not let this corrupt you. Bear your power with humility and service, and then those who know you will call you truly great. For true greatness is not in destruction, but in healing. When the sword fails to conquer, compassion oft victors. These things you know already, I am certain, and I but remind you of them."

Serge nodded.

"I've always remembered that. And I've never had ambitions for power as it is."

Radius nodded his head.

"So you say, and I believe you. You are noble and true of heart, as incorruptible a soul as can exist in this world. Yet fate may devise other trials, other tests of strength. Remain steadfast, remain true and, above all, trust in hope beyond your own strength. Though all be torn away from you, though your spirit be crushed in grief and despair, you must always remember to rise again, and trust to a better day ahead, and to the design of fate. For while to you power and ambition hold no temptation, I believe if you were to lose all that you hold dear, if your spirit were assailed and beaten with sorrow and loss, then I see your test shall come. And so I say to you: rise above it. For in the manner you struggle against this is how you shall be measured a man and hero. I pray that such a time may never befall you, and such a trial never come. And yet I see much toil in your future, and an uncertain end. Be prepared, in mind and body, for suffering, pain, yea, even death should it come for you."

"I'll try to remember that," Serge said, beginning to tire of the speech given to him. Radius smiled, seeing his impatience for a quick departure.

"But this path that you now follow you tread willingly, and with full knowledge of your peril. And so you are more a man than many that have been called kings, and more courageous than many that have been named heroes. And now, I see, the servants of fate come for you."

In the darkness beyond the furthest building he saw shadowy figures stir. They had come, and they awaited his answer.

"Farewell, Serge! In peace you leave, and in peace may you return," Radius called out to him from behind as he left.

Casting one last glance upon the old man, he made for the village edge. Certainly it was the three that awaited him there.

"So, what do you say, Serge?" Crono asked with urgency, keeping himself well hidden amongst the shadows.

"He's coming." Schala responded from another corner of the darkness before Serge could reply for himself, "Though he is not sure of his choice."

It was strange to Serge, hearing those words come from her. For to his eyes she was for all he could tell Kid, the one whom he had known. A fiery young girl, a cunning thief, yet the truest of friends. But in her voice he caught a sense of wisdom and power that he had never heard there before. Truly she was not simply Kid any longer, he thought with some sadness.

"You can tell that?"

She smiled.

"Most certainly. It is written in your eyes and upon your countenance."

Janus sighed impatiently, his form obscured completely by the darkness he hid himself in.

"My sister may feel we have time to bandy words like fools, but I know we do not. If you have indeed decided favourably, wonderful. Then let us leave, and with haste."

Crono frowned to him.

"Are we in danger?"

"Not presently. But we are hunted. I shall feel more comfortable in the unpeopled wilderness."

"Very well. Come now, Serge. Our boats are sheltered on the southeastern shores. By dawn we can reach them, if we hurry."

With a turn of his cloak, he disappeared into the dark forest beyond the buildings. Taking up stride beside Schala, Serge followed. And so began his journey to Guardia, and the many things that came after had their beginning in those first steps.

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)


	7. A Joining of Ways

CHAPTER VI

**A JOINING OF WAYS

* * *

**

It was even as Crono had said: as the morning sun broke from the horizon, sending its shimmering light across the dawn sea, they came upon the small encampment. Serge could see little of it before they were upon it, though he surmised this had been done with purposeful intent. In this way unfriendly eyes would have a difficult time finding it, he understood as he glanced out to sea. If that was indeed what Crono feared. It seemed strange that Porre would send warships to seek out four people.

"So, are we leaving right away, then?" Serge asked, unsure as to what was planned for their immediate future. It was with some bitterness that he realized that he felt none of the self-confidence that he had upon his last adventure. Perhaps his time apart from danger had softened his mind. But maybe it was only that there was no pressing danger driving him forward. The last time he had been compelled beyond his control to face the future, and had not made his choices all too willingly. Then fate had chosen him. Now it seemed he had chosen his fate, and that decision did not rest lightly upon him.

"What was that, Serge?" Crono asked, turning to face Serge.

"Are we going to go to sea right away?" Serge asked again as they came into the camp. A small fire from a few nights before and two overturned boats were all that proclaimed the site an encampment.

Crono shook his head.

"No. Not at once at any rate."

"But, the morning tide..." Serge asked, surprised that for all their haste Crono would forego the speed that the outgoing tide brought.

"We can do without it," Crono said. "This is no mean journey we are setting out upon. We sail into a war, if Janus' grim wishes come to fruition."

Crono sat himself down upon the beach-sand near the boats.

"Ah, I merely think that you must still be somewhat uncertain over how suddenly this has come upon you," Crono said.

"It would be useless to deny it to me, Serge, I can see it in your eyes," he said before Serge could in any way dismiss it. "So would I, had I not been fighting a ceaseless war for fifteen years. I am thirty-seven years...it may be old by your reckoning, but I have not forgotten my youth, and my journeys are not lost to my memory."

Janus turned about as he said this.

"Even so, do we have time to tarry so? The Porre armada will be at sea by this time."

"So much time we have, Janus. It may be long years since you last travelled with a company, and surely you never cared much for such things, but you must remember: both weakness and strength is shared by all. Not all are so foolishly self-sure as you are."

Janus shrugged, plainly not caring much for Crono's rebuke.

"As you say it. I have taken you to be my leader in this, your quest. And by your judgement I shall abide, folly though it may be."

"Janus!" Crono replied sharply and stood, catching the haughty dissent in the voice. "I never once begged your company. If you wish to leave, you may do so at your pleasing."

And with this they continued to argue, casting insults and rebukes aplenty, and Serge stepped aside, suddenly forgotten. Not stopping in their vehement speech, the two made ready the boats for departure. Turning them upright they began to order the supplies that had been stored beneath into the hulls of the boats.

"Those two," Schala said, shaking her head and coming to Serge's side. "Those two will never get along fully. They are true friends, but of such different temper that their fate is ever to argue. It has been twenty years since they last saw each other, and still they find a way in which to find flaws with the other."

A wizard and a warrior, two who were for all accounts as varied as daylight is from nighttime, yet at need the dearest of allies and even friends. And now that he saw them all in the sunlight, knowing them for who they truly were, he took careful note of those he travelled with. In the dark night the day before, brightly though the moon had shone, Janus had been mostly a shadow to his eyes. And now that he saw him in the full light of the sun he saw that his grim countenance was not only the work of the dim light. Even beneath the sunlit day the dark glance that he had seen did not leave the wizard's eyes or face. Though, indeed, the night increased his seemingly dark might, he was far from powerless even under the sun. His hands were gloved in dark leather, and he was robed and mantled like the ancient nobility that he was, and with the proud bearing and eyes becoming of it. And he was tall, in height great beyond the measure of any others Serge had ever seen before. In his village Serge was accounted average, but Janus was much more than a head taller than he himself. And the strength he held in his limbs was a like match to his size.

He shook his head, wondering at the circumstances that had brought him into such peculiar company.

And Crono! Less grim than Janus, certainly. And yet, when he looked upon him, he could see more power than was made apparent. If the tales he had heard were true, Crono was no less mighty than Janus. It seemed otherwise at a fleeting glance, but Serge wondered if there was not truth to this. Crono, appearing as some hunted bandit with his travel worn clothes, blade by his side, and scars testifying to countless affrays, seemed as one who knew the world and its ways keenly. One who could fade into the forests as though he were a beast of the trees, and who knew the secrets of hunters and living in the wild. A fearless warrior, hardy and undaunted by hardship. As he had thought upon their first meeting: one who had seen the world, but not yet tired of life.

"So," Schala said, casting herself down upon the sand, breaking between his contemplations of those he had now joined in comradeship, "now we are speaking with each other again, for the first time in months. How has the time apart been to you?"

"Fine," he began, then on a second thought corrected himself. "Well, no, not quite. There were those dreams, and I was restless. But what about you?"

She smiled.

"As you. Restless, mate. Ai, that other world ain't all that different from this here place. But..." she trailed off, pausing in her words in mid-sentence. Then, after a moment of thought, broke out laughing.

"Ah, my apologies. It is most strange. Sometimes I cannot help but talk as I once did, as that vagabond girl Kid. It is always myself, for she is me, but even so it is different. I have two lives and souls in my mind."

She dropped her head in thought.

"Though not as though it were two warring beings," she said, lightly running her slender fingers through the sand. "It is a perfect harmony. Only in my mood can I tell apart who I am at the time," she finished, with a slight frustration on her tone, still casting her eyes earthward.

Serge looked at her, contemplating the one before him. He could see what she meant. Her face looked just as he remembered; her hair, though loose and un-braided, was little different. Her dress was certainly of a different fashion, but that was a minor matter. For, in passing even he, who knew her better than anyone outside of her brother, would think her only to be the cunning thief who had used the name of Kid. And for a moment he nearly forgot that these were not still the days wherein they had travelled together. Seeing her as she now sat, it was nearly as if the old times came new to his mind as the present, and almost he felt himself urging her on to the next quest set before him. Yet, as she looked up at him, casting her eyes into his, he saw that it was merely an illusion. Surely the fire and headstrong zeal had not departed from her. But now it was mingled with the more mellow look and solemn wisdom of the princess Schala.

"Perhaps," she said as she stood again and kicking the sand absently, "they are merely two parts of my being, akin like the right hand is to the left. Kid is most assuredly what Schala would have been had she been given that life. And had Kid been raised in the court of Zeal, she would have been even as Schala. And so everything that Kid was is part of the mind of Schala. In friendship and the like, I am more like the vagabond child; mark my words, and they seem near always as the princess of Zeal."

She clasped her hand on Serge's shoulder.

"Do not worry yourself with this. I am she whom you remember. My memory is still as clear as it has every been, and not a day that I have ever spent with you have I forgotten. But if I can hardly know my own self better than what feeling brings me, I cannot and will not wish you to understand. I only wish you to see me still as your friend."

In her voice he heard the will of Kid, while the words were spoken with the eloquence of the princess. His most beloved friend she had once been, and he would not now nor ever betray that friendship. Most especially not when she had so earnestly recalled to him his old comradeship with her.

"Of course," he said, meaning the words with full assurance in his mind and heart. "'Till the ending of the world, best of friends'. We promised each other that long ago, and I'm not about to forget that."

She nodded slowly.

"Best of friends," she echoed, though in her voice he caught a glimmer of something hidden and almost sad. But of what he could not mark nor understand, for with a smile she turned from him looking back to the boats where Crono and Janus were still locked in argument as they prepared the boats. At last, frustrated by his friend, Janus walked over to where Serge and Schala were speaking.

"That man," he muttered to his sister, "is ten-fold more stubborn than I remember him."

Schala grinned wryly at him, crossing her arms.

"And I am sure he would say a like thing of you. Tell me, just what have you found disagreement about?" she asked, stealing a small smile to Serge that told him that she knew full well that it was some trivial matter.

"The provisions, my sister. He," he flourished his hand over at Crono who, seeing this, scowled faintly.

Not caring to return the glance, Janus continued:

"He, as a fool, insists that we may leave most of them here, and says that we do not need them. I am not one for over-caution, yet does it not make more sense to carry all of what we have, in case of need. It is a half months sail to Guardia, and we have little enough as it is."

Schala sighed as she rose, having expected something trivial of this sort.

In this case," Schala said, "I would rule against you. We have enough in supplies to last us twice the distance," she said, pointing over to the nearest craft. "Samite robes and a crate of black tea? What do you need that for, brother? It will make our journey all the swifter to travel lightly, and I deem that speed in this case is a more valuable asset than having a full belly or pristine raiment."

Janus raised his voice in protest, but Schala silenced him with a raised hand.

"You may be an excellent sorcerer, master of magic, and whatever else history has shown you to be, but you are not all-wise," she fixed her eyes on her brother. "Take another's advice in matters beyond your knowledge. And I could say the same for you as well, Crono."

"I do, when it pleases me," Crono replied with a smile, looking up from the packing.

"And so does my brother, it seems," Schala muttered under her breath so that Janus could not hear.

"No matter," she said, pacing about the nearest boat, "simply pack what we need without argument. How you two ever made peace long enough to defeat Lavos is a mystery beyond even my understanding," she added with jest.

Wisely taking the advice given to them, both continued the preparations in silence. They stowed packs of dried meats and fresh fruits gathered from the surrounding forests, the latter to ward off blight of scurvy on such a long sail; spare clothes and a myriad of varied trappings that lay strewn about the beach camp were cast into a pile to be left. Last of all they took to packing the weapons they carried with them.

Crono brought out his sword from the scabbard at his side and flourished about.

"Ah, how I hate the feel of this sword now," he said, shaking his head, "Do you remember, Janus, when I could find no better weapon than this?"

Janus thought into the past for a moment.

"No," he said at last. "That was before we met, I think."

Janus took the weapon from Crono's hand, and peered down its length.

"A good sword in its own right, though it carries no name. A captain would be glad to carry such a well-made brand in these days. It is of lodestone?"

Crono nodded.

"Certainly. Forged by Melchior. Not his finest work, but of greater worth than most fashioned in these later days. This is the first time I have taken it up in many a year."

"Whatever for do you now? You possess mightier weapons. Why bother yourself with such a petty blade then?" Janus asked, looking up in frowning question upon his friend.

Crono laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

"For memory, perhaps. It recalls to my mind long passed days, when I was no more than a little child, lost in the world, trying to do battle with whatever evil crossed my path. When I take it up, I can somewhat remember those days. The seeming freedom, and the clear-minded joy of victory and adventurous journey, untrammelled by the concerns that come of wisdom. Though they are lost in time, memory yet holds them, and in wielding it I can recall it in some guise."

Serge, who had been listening silently till then, now spoke up.

"Of course!" he said, standing. "What I wouldn't do to hold the Masamune again. It still makes me sad that I lost it in that last battle of mine."

Behind him Serge heard Schala laugh lightly. He turned to face her.

"What's so funny?" he asked, thinking that it must have been his words that had brought about her laughter.

"The Masamune is lost?" she asked, though quite lightly, as if it were less a question and more a jest.

Serge looked at her in bewilderment.

"Isn't it? I barely remember leaving the Tesseract, when everything was done. I can only think that I left without it. I hated to lose it, but maybe that was the cost of saving you."

She laughed.

"But Serge! Surely you don't think I would allow such a sword as the Masamune to perish, do you? It had a life of its own, and I was unwilling to simply allow it to remain in that place, no more than I would have left you or your comrades there. And beyond this, it may yet have deeds to do."

She knelt down and reached into the boat beside her, drawing out a sword. And yet unlike any other sword that had been seen in this world in any other time. It was as a quarter-staff, with a sharp blades formed as leaves fastened to either end. A style of weapon that no other wielded, but he himself. A swallow, he named it. As the bird which was its namesake it was swift. But the Masamune was no ordinary swallow made of wood and steel, such as he had crafted or commissioned of craftsman before. No, it was a far greater weapon than any ordinary smith could fashion.

"Do you know the story of this weapon, Serge?" Schala questioned, tossing him the sword, which he caught by the leather-enwound haft.

"A little," Serge replied, spinning the weapon about in his hands for the first time in many months. Balanced most perfectly upon the centre, it was ever so light, as if it were a mere branch . It seemed near glad to be held in his hands again, and Serge though he could hear joyful whispers echo in his mind as his fingers grasped it.

"Made by the same smith that made Crono's Rainbow, right?" Serge said, contemplating the shimmering blades that danced with sunlight. A gleam that no dirt nor stain could blemish, nor could blood stain it, not while the one who wielded it strove for righteousness.

Schala nodded to his reply.

"Yes," she continued, "it was forged by the great Melchior of the red rock that humans have called dreamstone. Crafting in his forge in Zeal the great smith had fashioned a red knife, to be the bane of all evil forevermore. From this hope of his, by the power of the stone of dreams, were born the beings of the knife. They were Masa and Mune, brethren spirits, from whence came the name by which it has been known. These are but names in translation; in Zeal the elder was known as Selinros, which signifies 'mighty dream', and the younger as Nephilnash, or 'angel of the wind'. The knife itself was named Nephilsaeros, the 'great-sword of angels'. However, the blade was but a passing form. For when at last put to the great test, by Crono no less, when in ancient Zeal he essayed to halt Lavos, the knife changed. By the will of hope that Crono bore when wielding the blade, it became the Holy Sword Masamune, Evil's Bane. Lost to the eyes of history for a time when caught in the ruin of Zeal, it came through the years to Guardia. And here it became the weapon of the champions of Guardia. Alas, in this role the sword did not fare well," she said, pausing in her pacing talk to run her fingers along the blade. "The good knight Sir Cyrus, seeking out the sorcerer Magus, found his evil magic too much, even for the Masamune."

Janus sighed in frustration, as if vexed that such things were once more brought to attention.

"Must I always be reminded of my past so, sister? You say that as if I were some heartless dark lord that Cyrus justly sought to put to an end. I was in no wise kind or forgiving, I will not lie about that, but all light had not abandoned me. And I could not well let Cyrus strike me through. Very good that should have looked: 'Here I am Cyrus, I wish you to kill me in recompense for the evil I have done. I will not defend myself; I see the error of my ways!' Do not make me laugh. It was by his own folly that he sought me out."

Schala shook her head.

"Your past will forever haunt you, as does mine. Yes, you have atoned for your evil, my brother. But the past does not simply fade. What you did ever remains, the good and the evil alike. As my tale was saying," she continued, pausing for a moment in an attempt to recall what she had last spoken of, "in this confrontation the blade was broken. For many years it remained so, its power scattered. Then came a great paradox: Crono reforged it. For you see, he had not yet then come to Zeal, nor seen its birth."

Crono shrugged, looking with some wonder upon the selfsame sword he had once used in the guise of a dagger.

"Yes, it is strange what befalls those who seek to cross the roads of time. I suppose it was fate."

"Perhaps." Schala responded. "Truly, it would be strange that such a thing should have chanced without the will of fate. But whether it was by accident or purposed to be, the rebirth of the sword was achieved. And once again the mighty of Guardia carried the sword: first, the hands of Glenn of the South Marches, who accompanied Crono. Then, by the champions of the court for centuries. But, when at last Guardia fell, it was lost."

She looked to Crono questioningly, as if entreating him to continue the story.

"Do not look to me for answers as to this, Schala. I know less of this than you. We fled the castle scarcely with our very lives; we did not have rescue the sword, and left it behind. I have no knowledge of who took it, or in what manner it became the evil sword it was thenceforth."

"I had hoped you knew," she said, sighing with disappointment. "It is a matter that has long eluded me and I much desired to understand. No-matter! In the end, you, Serge, restored it to it's true being. In repayment of this debt it took you to be its master and, as you well know, took the form that you favoured, and that it now holds. For, as I have told you, of old it was the embodiment of the two righteous spirits: Masa and Mune. Masa, the elder brother, who is the power of good that seeks to victor over evil. Mune, the younger, is a spirit of wisdom and understanding. Together the powers of might and wisdom are most difficult to overcome. But for long there was a third absent from the sword. For it had been three, not two, that were born of the mind and wishes of Melchior. This was Selinirë, in the high speech of Zeal: 'the maiden of the dream'. For she is a spirit of dreams and compassion, and nothing evil can corrupt her. When you returned the sword to its true and noble form, she awoke from slumber, vowing ever after to keep her brothers from evil. And so it is the sword you hold now: a sword of great power, and far-seeing wisdom, and gentle compassion. A greater union can scarcely be found, and in this fashion it is truly the foe, rather the bane, of all that is evil."

"Some rightly name it to be the mightiest sword in all the earth, Serge," Crono said. "It even surpasses this, my own sword."

Serge stole a glance over to him and saw he, too, now held a sword. As with his other weapon it was ever so slightly curved. Yet it seemed to hold a hidden power many times greater than the other blade, even as its owner was greater than he made readily apparent. And neither did it have the dull grey sheen of beaten lodestone that the other bore. Upon its shimmering sides colours danced faintly, as if a soft rainbow had alighted upon the metal.

"What is it?" Serge questioned. "That's at least partially made from a rainbow shell, unless I miss my guess."

"You do not. It is forged of both Malechost, that is Sunstone, and rainbow shell. A potent might when wielded by one who knows it. It has been my companion for well near twenty years now," he said, contemplating the weapon's blade with something akin to reverence.

"Twenty years? I'd guess you're pretty good with it, then." Serge said.

"Let us see, shall we? Serge," he said, looking up to face Serge, a strange gleam of excitement in his eyes, "on you guard!"

So saying, Crono raised his weapon in challenge.

"What? You want to fight me?" Serge asked, surprised by the sudden invitation to combat.

Crono nodded, a wry smile upon his face.

"To see how skilled you truly are, and if the tales of your strength not fable," he brandished his sword about once, and set his feet ready for battle.

Serge looked to Schala, wondering what to do. But she merely shrugged, calling this his choice.

Now, a battle he had not faced in many months, and though his arms rejoiced to once more hold the Masamune, he felt them unready to fight. However, he would not deny Crono's request of a friendly duel, nor would he wish to simply back down weakly. Moreover, he now thought, perhaps a practice such as this was what he needed, to bring his mind back to how it had once been.

"All right," he said, a confidence returning to his voice. He closed his eyes, and memories of every battle he had ever faced coursed through his mind. Before him stood all the enemies that he had ever sought to do battle with. Monsters and dragons, undead and living, and many more besides. He reopened his eyes, and nodded, telling Crono he was ready.

He leaped forward, spinning his weapon about him. For a moment Crono was startled by this swift and skilful handling of such a weapon, and he brought up his sword in defence only a moment before Serge was upon him.

With a shrill clash that echoed loudly along the otherwise quiet beachfront the two gleaming blades met. For a moment their blade-edges were held fast together, and neither would yield to the other. But only for a moment, and Serge had a certain advantage in his two blades. He spun the free end about: at needs Crono swept his weapon in a parrying stroke, and leaped backward. Crono then looked to his own attack. Nimbly leaping back a dozen paces he bore his sword ready. In answer Serge held the Masamune crossways before himself, ready to counter any mighty stroke or deft blade twist dealt against him. But even so the attack came upon him much more swiftly than he had anticipated. Brandishing his sword about Crono came flying upon him with much greater speed than Serge would ever have accounted of one even so skilful as he. It was as if the very air lifted him up in its swift wings. Dropping soundlessly as a cat on the sand behind Serge, Crono swung with his sword. But Serge was not wholly caught, though he was much startled, and brought his sword behind him, turning aside Crono's blade.

"Good," Crono said, nodding in approval. "You very swift, indeed. It is, then, as I have heard, then. You are truly a master of that sword."

He paced lightly about Serge, his eyes ceaselessly searching his opponent for a chance weakness.

Serge, too, did not idly stand, but whirled his sword about his fingers, keeping its speed prepared.

But for all of the skill and might at Serge's command, it was to no avail. With a deft spin and slip of his sword, as swift as the very wind that blows unexpected with the onset of a storm, Crono struck. The Masamune took the first blow, but with the second Serge felt its shaft wrested from his grip. He fell back to the sand, startled as Crono leaped forward.

With a final stroke, Crono brought the Rainbow flourishing about his head, stopping its glimmering blade but a hairs breadth from Serge's neck.

Pausing for a minute, he laughed, then spinning his sword about once thrust it back into its scabbard.

He reached out a friendly hand for Serge, pulling him up to standing.

"You needn't feel bad, Serge," he said, seeing Serge somewhat undone by his loss. "It has been many years since I last fought a swordsman as skilled as you are. And you must remember, I have been fighting without rest for the last fifteen years."

Janus, coming up beside Crono, gave him a vexed look.

"Modesty is not needed here, Crono. You lost, Serge, because it may well be said that Crono is the best swordsman the world has seen in nearly four hundred years. In all of history, only the great Sir Glenn could match him in a contest of arms."

"Sir Glenn?" Crono asked. "There was a time when you did not speak so favourably of him. I think that 'that accursed, sword-brandishing , little fool' was your more common name for him."

"There was a time, Crono, when he was my sworn enemy. And I deem that in true skill you have long since surpassed him. Only by virtue of the Masamune, which he then wielded, could he have hoped to best you."

Crono shrugged it aside.

"Perhaps. But those days in which we journeyed together with him are now long gone. Time is not the road it once was to me, and Glenn does not live in this age."

"And it is the poorer for it. Serge now bears his weapon, though I doubt that Serge could ever hope to become as great as he was," he said in memory, then continued quickly seeing Crono about to speak. "Do not begin again on that old feud I had with him. That I long ago put to rest, did I not? I admit now he was a most skilful swordsman."

Crono nodded, waving a hand dismissively as he turned from facing him to Serge.

"Old friends never forgotten, Serge. As you no doubt know," he said, with the touch of a question in the way he said the last words..

"Yeah, I suppose," Serge answered in response to Crono's words. "Your friends scattered throughout time. Mine, between two worlds, and don't remember me."

"The ways of fate are hard, are they not? Especially for those called great. Those whom God loves he punishes, or so it may seem if one were only to look at an account of the fortunes of heros," he trailed slowly from his deliberations, taking a glance out to the sea. "Well, delight in the company of some at least that know of you. And do not forget that they too shall fade, even if you remain," he added bitterly, a cloud passing over his face as a sudden memory returned anew to his mind..

"You speak of Lucca?" Schala asked in such a way that Serge could well see she already knew this to be the answer.

Crono nodded, sighing ever so slightly.

"Yes, Lucca. Lucca Ashtear, Serge, though I doubt you would not have heard of even her surname. Too late did I come to save her when she was taken by that accursed abomination Lynx. The regret that I allowed my best friend to die shall ever haunt me. Two there were that remained with me after all was finished. That we at needs were scattered to our native times, that was bitter enough. But that I needed lose those that still remained with me? Now but Marle and I live in this time."

"She was my foster mother, Crono, as well as your friend," Schala responded reprovingly. "In grieving her death, remember you neither wept solely nor most heavily."

Crono cast a look across at her, meaning to protest this. But upon meeting her eyes, he despaired of his argument. As a mother, dearer than any friend, had Lucca been to her. That loss had nearly slain her, and only through hopeless will of vengeance had she continued with life.

Crono sat down heavily on the earth, thrusting his sword into the sand, quivering at his side.

"And you Serge? Any you miss?"

"Many and always, now that I remember," Serge said, smiling sadly.

"That rogue pirate Fargo, for one. Not a few times did he save my life in a fight. And Norris, for another. To think that we spoke with each other just two days ago, like complete strangers. Then I would've sworn any oath that I didn't know him. That two who went through so much shouldn't have any memory of their friendship...that's bitter."

From where she leaned aside a boat Schala spoke up.

"And Kid?" she added, with a laugh. "Her you don't miss at all, then?"

Serge chuckled.

"Kid? Of course. Though not now, anymore. She's come back to me at least, haven't you?" he said, smiling to her.

With a faint glimmer, hinting almost of sadness, Schala smiled.

"Perhaps she has."

----

Finally, after further packing, mingled with much reminiscing, they set out. Truly, they had missed the morning tide, and so their leaving was less swift then it might have been. But in his heart Serge thanked Crono for his thoughtful delay, though at what cost it may come he knew not. If nothing else his mind seemed somewhat more at ease with what was now chancing. For the first time in months Serge, with his back to the boat and staring absently at the shimmering sea, was sure of who he himself was and what was laid upon him. And yet he could not quell some rising regret that plagued his mind. He looked out at the sea about him.

Across the endless seas the boats swept, the coastlands of Serge's home island passing by swiftly to their left hand, in the west. To the east the boundless sea sat in calm midsummer grace, the blue sky reflected as in a mirror on its glassy surface. To the south and west led the way back around the island, and back to his home. But now his course went opposite, to the north and east, to where this tale now led him. Wherever it was, it was far away from his home, and more than once he caught himself glancing back across the water in longing. But his village was now many miles distant, and nothing but the water and eastern coasts of the island met his eyes. And so he contented himself with the company that he now had. In one craft Schala and Crono sat with Serge. Janus, whose wont it was to oft sit alone in deep brooding, perchance even profound, thought, was in the other.

Not that Serge would have spoken much to Janus as it was. Even had he tried, he greatly doubted that the wizard would entertain him with trivial speech. Though not unfriendly to him, he could well see that he had not the desire for such things.

"So, Crono. Tell me about Guardia," Serge asked, having no better question of his comrade. It was their goal, at least for the time being, yet he knew little enough about it. None of the islanders, himself included, cared overmuch for the affairs of the mainland. In isolation from the rest of the world, the archipelago of El Nido had existed alone for thousands of years, and would have remained so for much longer but for the coming of Acacians, and later of Porre.

"Guardia?" Crono replied in thought, sitting back at the stern of the boat, resting his hands lightly on the tiller.

"What is there one can say about one's home? It is not much like these islands, I can tell you that much. Firstly, it is not so infernally warm," he said wiping his brow with his sleeve and staring up with a harsh look upon the midday sun. "Much too warm for my liking. But that you know of course, for Guardia lies much to the north of this land. Here winter is as summer, and the change of season is only marked by the sun. In Guardia, the leaves of autumn flare up in gold and crimson. You truly miss that beauty in this land of eternal summer. And then winter! Soon you shall know what that truly is, and you will see snow. I cannot fathom you returning home before next spring. Winter is too near at hand, and it would be perilous to attempt the journey at that time of year."

"I suppose," Serge said. "What about your people? I imagine they are somewhat different than the people that are my neighbours here!"

"Ah, yes, certainly. As different as one human may be from another. Indeed, our customs and such are likely strange to you. But how differs the heart of one human from another? Not much! But I would tend to say that they are more welcoming of foreigners than are your people. Though not so of late. Occupation has a very harsh way of changing a people, and seldom is it for the better, unless it is the resilience and fortitude it breeds."

"Porre arrived there, what, fifteen years ago?" Serge asked, seeing the talk shifting now towards the recent history of the land, and that which nearly concerned them and their quest.

Not allowing Crono to answer, Schala said:

"Yes, they did. And Serge, I can well see why you are asking him all of this. But a few hours journey from your home, and already you miss it. You are trying to drown your homesickness in idle speech."

Serge shrugged.

"I can't help it. But talking about other places might be good. If nothing else, I should hear about where I'm going."

She turned up her hands, and shrugged, yielding.

"Perhaps. Remember, however, that you have come along with us of your own accord. Take faith in that thought, and do not doubt your own convictions in this choice."

For a moment none of the three spoke, and Serge found himself silently contemplating the words she had spoken to him. But after a moment Crono once again took up speaking, turning the conversation back towards his land.

"Yes, Serge, Porre arrived near on fifteen years ago. For many years they had amassed their armies. Once, during my travels, I went there. Now there is a land unlike Guardia! Warlike, militaristic, their people watched all the while with uneasy eyes by those in power. Soldiers with rifles tread all the streets. They fear their own more than they tremble at any army. But no wonder, with such a people, that they sought to broaden their power. Only too late did we see their strike."

He sat back, and it appeared to Serge that a bitter memory crossed Crono's face.

"Yes indeed," Crono continued, closing his eyes, "much too late. Late fall, fifteen years ago. 1005, by the reckoning of our Christian calender. Who's fault it may be, none can rightly say. Likely no one is to blame, or at least not wholly. Spies we had, but from them we heard naught of warning. Then upon the morn of midsummer we received tidings of dread: a fleet of great galleons had landed upon our southeastern shores. An army was upon us even before we saw the warning of war."

"Did you put up a fight?"

"Did we resist? I should not call myself a true child of Guardia if I had not! Yes, we went to war. I did. My friends and all the knights did. Even Marle, both my wife and the crown princess, did, though her father the king did all he could to keep her from it."

He laughed in memory.

"But her will is stubborn; I've learned that very well since. A grand battle that was, and doomed to fail. To rally the peasants of an entire land is no small matter. An army of only three thousand we had. Three thousand against their two. Perhaps in better times this would have guaranteed the victory for us. But we were ill equipped, and they had brought with them inventions of war new to the eyes of my people: for the first they saw guns, and in dread of them they faltered. In desperate defence Marle and I stood with the castle till it, too, was overwhelmed. What a sight that must have been to those attempting to gain it. They did not count upon our magic, I think, and the siege of the castle was certainly much more difficult than they had anticipated. Through lightning, winds as cold as a winter storm, and fiery tempests burning hot as hell they fought. But no magic could stay their onslaught. We were overcome in the end, and so much was lost in those days. But four days, in truth that is all it was, and all of Guardia was lost," he buried his face in his hands over the bitter memory. "And the loss suffered by its people was far greater. Fathers slain, children that never returned home from the war, and husbands struck down in droves as they fled in terror. Our own son, a child not two weeks past his first year, was lost in those days."

"Could you not travel through time to avert the disaster?" Serge asked, wondering why the great hero who had surpassed time once could not have done so again.

"Alas, no. Perhaps that may have been one thing that would have saved my land. And the great relic of our journeys, the time ship called Epoch, was indeed in our keeping. Safe we had hidden it, to guard against just such a day. Yet at the last it, too, failed us, and nothing we could do would reawaken its power. This, even as the invaders stormed the battlements. Time would not allow itself to be traversed in such a way again. Fate did not wish this, I suppose, and the Epoch could never work contrary to fate. Our last hope lost, we fled the castle in stealth but moments before the conquering armies, leaving it to those accursed legions to occupy. Then, for several months, I led a band of outlaws, as they called us, in opposition to the invader's armies. Knights, squires, and simple peasant folk that gathered about me in the short days following the ruin. But it is not easy to provide for three dozen soldiers when on the run from an entire empire. So Marle and I disbanded our troop, set out on our own, and we have been warring steadily in stealth against Porre for fifteen years now. But now that she is captured, I am at a loss as how to continue my struggle, and perhaps only through open war can my end be achieved finally."

"Would your people rally to your cause, Crono, if you raised the cry?" Schala asked, and it seemed she was cautious, if not worried, over the thought of war.

"Most certainly. But a word from me, and they would rise up in two days. Not without reason does Porre fear my people."

"Then, my friend, you may have a chance. The zeal of a people is a most difficult power to overcome for any invader."

"Then you really think you'll go to war?" Serge asked, both excitement and fear entering his heart over the thought of joining in full war.

"I see no other way. And as the prince of Guardia, I am bound find a way."

Schala nodded, but her face did not lose her disquiet, and she remained silent.

"Schala," Crono said in reply to her mood, "I am not a fool. This path I will not set out on lightly. I know that in my youth I would have recklessly gone to war, without much thought to the future. But I am changed now: in mood, wisdom, even speech."

He lifted his hands to his eyes and glanced at them with amusement on his face.

"Though my mind is not the only thing that has aged. I grow old, slowly, but with as much assurance as the coming winter my age comes upon me. I can feel it. I am not as strong as I once was."

He stole a smile to Serge.

"Take comfort that you have so many years before you yet."

Serge took a discerning glance at Crono. He was of the kind that did not take kindly to growing old, and feared age and its weaknesses more than death itself. He wondered how he himself would feel at that age. Would he also fear it, or would he take comfort in growing old?

"And you, Schala?" Serge asked, casting his eyes from Crono over to her.

"Me?" she said, surprised. "I know I seem scarcely out of childhood, but my mind feels as old as time itself."

She shook her head as if in weariness.

"You forget the ageless years I spent in the Tesseract. The cost of all that knowledge I gleaned from that was the memory of a pain beyond all other reckoning, and too much memory is a burden to the mind in and of itself. Even as the earth must sigh in weariness as the eons of its life pass, so, too, I tire of my life. Mortals souls were not intended to live such lengths, to know so many things, for even life tires and can seem as a burden."

Serge raised his brows in surprise.

"You think you've lived too long? There's nothing that you want to live for, or to do anymore?"

She paused in thought for an instant, then shook her head.

"No, not too long. What I have yet to do is to live a full mortal life as do all others of our race. I did not say I wish to die, only that some days the burden of knowledge can make one wish for a rest from all thought and reason. A scholar's curse," she added with a wry smile.

"But most people would give all they possess to know even a small part of what you know. You have a lot of knowledge and wisdom of things."

But before she could reply, the voice of Janus broke.

"This seems to be a most pleasant conversation that you three are having. But perhaps you might be better advised to tend to more pressing matters, such as evading that galleon that lurks behind us."

As one the three of them turned, their eyes sweeping the distant horizon that lay behind them.

Serge frowned, for only the unchanging sea, bordered in the west by the shores of El Nido, met his gaze. And his eyes were as keen as any, so he wondered of what Janus was so urgently warning them.

"I don't see anything, Janus," he yelled across to where Janus sat alert in the other boat.

"Why, of course you do not!" Janus called back with some annoyance. "Do you doubt me, Serge? My mind looks farther than your eyes can see: the ship remains behind the horizon. I did not say I could see it, but I feel its shadow nearing in my thought."

Turning his tiller he quickly steered his boat in beside the other.

Crono shook his head.

"It is no worry to us. Serge and Schala are skilled mariners. We should be able to evade it with little difficulty. And even if it does come to battle, I trust the four of us should have the better of it. Yet how they have managed to track us this far is most strange to me."

"Not strange," Schala said coming to the stern of the boat beside Crono, concern in her voice. "Sorcery, Crono. Their captain is no fool, whoever he may be. It is not only mariners but magicians, perhaps the Black Wind themselves, that follow us. I deem we shall have much trouble in outracing that ship."

This adventure of his was not beginning well, Serge thought unto himself.

"Isn't there anything you can do to make our chance better? Schala or Crono? Janus? Call upon some wind to give us speed, maybe?"

Janus shook his head impatiently.

"They will have given thought to that already. I know you are a skilled mariner, Serge, but this is greatly beyond you."

Crono, turning his gaze from the horizon where he had vainly been attempting to gain a glimpse of their pursuers, looked in question to Janus.

"And your advice in this matter, my friend?" he asked, to which Janus replied, after a moment of thought:

"We must find a harbor to overnight in. Through sorcery we can give them a hard pursuit for several hours at the least, which will be enough to find some place where we may go ashore and evade them."

Crono nodded to this advice, for it seemed wise to him. By land they had a greater chance of eluding those that sought them.

"Serge, what island is there near here that we may come to soon?"

Serge looked about in thought. To the distant west the cliffs of the mountainous regions of east El Nido met the sky.

"To the southeast is Marbule," he said slowly, taking thought to what he knew of the many islands that lay in El Nido, "but it'll be well into the night before we can get to it, and we'll have to go quite near to that ship following us if we want to go south. And the demi-human mystics control Marbule. I don't expect them to welcome us with open arms."

Schala shook her head.

"They despise Porre far more than your people, Serge; they would harbour us as fugitives from the Empire."

"Nevertheless," replied Crono, "it would be an impossibility to now gain it. There are other islands about us: what of them?"

Serge nodded. In whatever manner the demi-humans might greet them, it was only a slight chance that they could even gain it. And so he dismissed any hope of it, and thought further.

"Let's see: there are a few small islands straight ahead. None of any real importance. At least no one lives there, as far as I know," and then another thought came to him. "But there's a good chance northeast. On that heading, in three or four hours, we'll reach an island which has a hidden fort built on it. It was built a long time ago by the captains of the Acacia Dragoons when they still existed; I know where it is, and I think we'll find it safe there."

Crono nodded.

"Very well, Serge. We will go northeast."

"I disagree," Janus said suddenly, even as Crono moved to turn the tiller. "If we were to sail a few more hours along that very same course, we would come to another island. I believe it would serve us better."

Both Schala and Crono looked over to Serge, awaiting his reply to this sudden counsel. As it was, he did not in the least consider it even worthy of consideration, for he knew well what Janus spoke of.

"Janus, you're saying we should go to the Isle of the Damned?" he said with broken and unsure words; Janus only nodded, with an unchanged countenance, causing Serge to continue bewildered: "Whatever for? It'll nearly be night by the time we reach its cursed shores."

He shifted his gaze to Crono, shaking his head. "I say we make for the Acacian fort."

"And I know otherwise," Janus called back. "There is something you have overlooked. What chance do we have of hiding from sorcerers even in a hidden fort, unless it is covered by enchantment? This Dragoon fort most certainly is not. Even now our pursuers track us from beyond sight. Think of how much easier will it be on land. And to take refuge in a hole: we will have secluded ourselves in a trap of our own making."

"Then you can hide us," Serge said, unwilling to change his counsel.

"Yes, and no, Serge. I can cast a shroud of darkness over us, and make us unseen, certainly. I can weave us a cloak of night, so that to the eyes we will be unseeable. But this isn't a child's game of hiding and seeking. What should be more obvious than a darkness into which they cannot see? Most assuredly they will not know precisely where we are, but they will know we have taken refuge on that island by nature of my enchantment. I will not be able to disguise it for what it is, not from another sorcerer.

They will know, and feel the shadow in their minds, even as I feel their searching gaze upon mine now. So I say: take my counsel, Crono."

Serge fixed a sharp gaze upon Janus.

"Have you ever set foot on that land? The Isle of the Damned is an unholy place!"

"So it is," Janus said calmly. "And I can assure you that in my life I have walked through lands far more evil than this isle. But the truth of the matter is I believe those sorcerers that follow behind will find it very hard, indeed, to track us there, amid all the dark magic that rests upon its shores."

Serge merely shook his head in disbelief.

"I'll have you know that I went there once," he said, scowling at Janus. "Only because I had to, and in the daylight. I'll tell you that it's evil enough even under the sun. How much worse it'll be at night," he shuddered, "I don't even want to imagine. The dead don't have any peace there. And I don't want to tangle with those ghosts again."

"Are you so much a child to doubt me? Look in my eyes; do you think that I fear darkness or the spirits of death as others do? I may be redeemed from my former darkness, Serge, but do not think for a moment that my powers are lost to me. There are oaths such as even the dead need obey, and such spells I know. Whatever wraiths haunt that land, they will cross me at their own peril."

"I still say this is a bad idea..." Serge said, though his argument was not as strong as it had been, and he saw Janus' counsel winning over his own.

"And I should say that we are running out of time," Janus answered with some annoyance, pointing to the distant horizon at their backs. A black sail was scarcely visible.

For a few seconds Crono looked between Serge and Janus. Then finally he spoke, though it was certain that he was not wholly confident in his choice.

"Apologies, Serge, but I must agree with Janus. Whatever danger the dead may pose for us, I deem it less than that which we are in from that ship."

"Ships," corrected Janus, standing up carefully in his boat, his keen eyes searching the horizon, "at least five."

"What?!" Crono cried in surprise, turning to see what Janus had seen.

Now the single black sail had been joined by four others. And upon each of these, distant though they were, could be discerned the emblem of Porre West Navy. A crimson chimera.

"Have they sent their entire island armada to hunt us down?" Crono murmured, some distress in his voice. But Janus for his part merely laughed.

"Five mighty warships to catch two boats? Isn't this a situation worthy of a jester's tale. But at the least we now know how greatly they value our capture."

And shaking his head, he sat down.

"Let us now make for the isle that I spoke of, Crono," he said with his common self-assurance.

Slowly taking his eyes from the stern, Crono turned to the front of the boat.

"Very well. We have a mighty race before us. Serge, you and Schala are the most skilled mariners among us. One to a boat. You, with me. Schala, take the rudder your brother's."

Nodding, she leapt nimbly into the other boat, taking the tiller from her brother's hands.

"Going to call a storm, Crono?" Serge asked, preparing the sails.

Crono shook his head.

"Me? Most certainly not. I am a warrior-magician, not learned enough for such subtle use of enchantments. Were I to do this thing, we should rather be sunk to the bottom of the sea than sped upon a favourable course."

He looked over to Schala.

"Schala, if it please you, call the wind," he commanded

She nodded, and at once took up a narrow gaze to the distant clouds, which now sat in calm grace amid the blue sky.

"Let a favourable wind come upon us," she whispered.

Standing, she held out her arms, and threw her head back so that her eyes looked only upon the sky.

"Ched es omiera alach sol es aipates," she began, her voice deepening as the words escaped her lips; a true spell of ancient power, one as he had never heard from her before. It was the skill and learning of the princess Schala, not Kid, that now called out to the heavens.

"Es omiera degrat taureti sol es nimos,

Sai hael elth, nash entra es senar ander," she continued, and Serge saw the before still water ripple with the smallest of waves. On his cheeks he felt the light touch of a gentle breeze.

"Dainash entra es nichaiet michash,

Icham saia elth arenith,

Ched elth tëi petaw minos saiao,

Etarë areni sol antos saiao."

Now the clouds, before still and calm, began drifting apart in wisps. Across the surface of the water the little waves had now risen in size, lapping loudly against the boats. What had before been no more than a whisper of a wind, barely felt even on his face, now rose steadily. It caught full in the sails, and they strained at their masts for the sudden shock. With a quiver the two crafts leaped forward across the sea, the ocean spraying into their faces. And so was the chase joined, for within minutes a pursuit wind drove the following ships swiftly in their path.

* * *

**ON THE LANGUAGE OF ZEAL**

The language of Zeal, such as it was spoken in the High Court of that ancient kingdom is known by few in later days. Only the most learned loremasters endeavour to learn it among men, though it might be said that it lives in some guise, at least, among the Mystics, for they hold the tongue of Zeal as their formal speech, and that which they use to speak among their many races. When Schala speaks it she, being born of that ancient house, speaks it with the old dialect, that is nearly rendered as follows:

r- Always spoken as a trilled r.

ch- Always pronounced as the ch in the German words 'buch' or 'nacht.'

VOWELS

i- Always pronounced long, as the ee in 'beet.' If at the beginning of a word and together with a vowel, it is always pronounced separate. Thus in the Zeal form, Ientad is said, roughly, ee-ent-ahd.

o- Always spoken as the o in the word 'bode.'

a- Always short, and spoken as the u in 'must.'

e- Always short, as the e in 'beg', save for when it is ë (most often when e ends a word), in which case it is spoken as 'ay.'

u- Always long, like the oo in 'boot.'

y- Equivalent to a short i, like in 'bit.' It is used whenever the short i sound appears in English translations, but in the Zeal script it was simply rendered as a short i.

j- This is merely an accentuation of the i when it begins a word alongside a vowel, and was not a separate character in the Zeal script. Thus Janus, in Zeal, was not Jay-nuss, but rather ee-ah-nooss, roughly speaking.

DIPHTHONGS

ui- A diphthong pronounced similar to 'whee.'

ei- Near in sound to the e when it ends the word, it end on slightly higher a sound than 'ay.'

ai- Always spoken together, like the short i in the word bite

ae- Identical in sound to ai, it is but another rendering. In the Zeal script there is a separate symbol for this sound.

ao- Pronounced as the ow in 'cow.'

Whenever there is a ¨ above one of these two vowels together, the vowels are to be pronounced separately.

All vowel combinations apart from these were naturally pronounced as separate.

NOTE: I may have forgotten some in this, and I apologize for that.

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)


	8. The Isle of Ghosts

CHAPTER VII

**THE ISLE OF GHOSTS

* * *

**

Not lightly would the commanders of Porre allow their quarry to escape they saw as the winds drove them forward. Seeing the five great ships ever present on the horizon they knew that most especially at sea they had no chance at fighting. An so they prayed that they might gain the Island of the Damned before they were overtaken. The south-west gale winds, summoned forth by Schala's spell, all the while rushed past their ears and whipped the waves into hills that tossed the little crafts violently.

But whether by luck or the will of fate their prayers were answered and, even as the sun dropped below the horizon casting shimmering twilight jewels upon the sea, they reached the isle. Indeed it was as evil as Serge remembered, if not worse. Even in the pale light he could well see the dark slopes, rent with holes and scattered with bones.

"Take the boats to those rocks," Janus cried across to Serge, pointing at a nearby hill of stones upon which the waves broke.

Beaching the boats in shadows they stepped cautiously onto the shore. In their hearts they felt the dark evil that lay about the island, and at once a black brooding fell upon their minds. Beneath their feet they felt the snap of the small bones that littered the beach.

"How can such a place as this come to be?" Crono asked with some dread as they carefully hid the boats behind the rocks, for the land about was strewn with decaying corpses. "It is unlike any other I have seen before. It is rife with death and decay, and its foul stench chokes me."

"They don't really exist," Serge said pointing about at the dead things before Janus could offer an explanation of his own. "Dark magic and hatred's done this, or at least that's what I was told when I came here before."

Janus himself said no words, but nodded silently in affirmation.

Ghastly visages peered at them from the interior of the island, and the hollow eyes of death watched them from the twilight.

Serge squinted into the darkness, catching a fleeting glimpse of some dark movement. He shivered heavily, knowing that no living beings but they resided on this island.

"Janus, are you sure that we're safe?"

Janus did not answer, but wandered some way higher up the beach, the bones crumbling all the more loudly beneath his heavy footfalls. Raising his hands towards the darkness he whispered unheard words under his breath.

After a time he waved for them to follow.

"I have commanded the dead not to harm us. Even so I do not put utter faith in the vows of the departed. Keep your guard alert."

"Janus, if this goes ill, I shall never forgive you," Schala muttered, uneasiness plain in her tone. Her sharp eyes darted ceaselessly into the darkness, ever expecting a sudden stroke. Serge too felt the disquiet that lay as a mist upon the land, and his hand never left the hilt of the Masamune. In the touch of his weapon he took some comfort. A relic of goodness amidst evil, and this reassured his mind.

"Serge, Schala!" Janus whispered with annoyance on seeing that the two moved ever cautiously and slowly. "Do not sacrifice our speed for vigilance. Those trailing us pose a far greater danger than any shade of death."

"Janus," Schala muttered angrily under her breath so that only Serge could hear, "sometimes you are not very wise. Only fools trifle with wraiths."

Making their way up towards the interior was not a light task. No paths had ever been laid on the island it seemed or, if they ever had been, they had long ago been destroyed or rotted away. So it was that their climb led them over terrain not only difficult to their legs, but frightening to their minds. Truly all four of them had seen things of terror, and faced dark evils of dread. But here it seemed that all those memories, hidden away and forgotten in dark recesses of their minds, returned anew and vibrant. And so as they walked they spoke little, their thoughts in grave disquiet.

Few places there were where some dead thing did not lie, and it seemed that spectres wandered ever at their sides and darted across the path in front of them and behind. Held at bay only by Janus' bidding, perhaps.

"How far must we go?" Crono asked wearily as they ascended yet another rise. Master of any path that he was, even he found the trail overtaxing.

"Till our pursuers have no hope of finding us," Janus said plainly, though weariness showed in his voice as well.

"Janus," Crono whispered harshly in frustration as he turned to face Janus, "I account myself a better tracker than any those that follow us," he said breathing heavily, "and I would never be able to find us even had we walked but a quarter hour into this accursed land. And here we are, having walked for near to a full hour. The sun is gone, and I cannot see well anymore. Do you revel in leading us over such ground?" he added, glancing in disgust at his feet.

Serge, though he had remained quiet till then, felt likewise.

"You may have good eyes at night Janus, but I sure don't," he said, his words trailing off as he stumbled over what was yet another corpse. "And I really don't appreciate being led over a graveyard like this, especially not at night."

He broke off with a chill shudder. Not only was he tired, sore, and ashamedly frightened by the ghastly land they were travelling over, but he also felt near to sickness over the smell of death that was thick in the air.

"Can we not make camp now?" Schala demanded.

Sighing in frustration, but seeing that the other three were adamant about halting, Janus relented, albeit grudgingly.

"Very well. If you order it, we can make camp here. Take care not to disturb the bones overmuch, but we shall be as safe here as anywhere."

"Don't disturb the bones," Serge muttered to Schala at his side. "How can we help it? The ground's covered in them."

Schala shook her head, stealing an angry glance as her brother gazed the other way.

"He is too sure in himself," she whispered to Serge. "Not a few times has it nearly led to his ruin. I only hope that this is not the occasion when his devil's luck leaves him."

She drew a small lamp from her pack. Running her hand across the top, a small flame lit up in the inside, casting a soft haunting glow about the area. It was only in the light of the lamp that Serge saw just how dark it had been a moment before.

"Schala!" Janus whispered sharply from a short distance away. "Drown that light at once! Do you wish to bring their entire armada down upon us?"

Schala did not respond, but stared sharply into the darkness beyond Janus.

"Schala!" Janus repeated, vexation in his voice.

Drawn out of her silence by her brother's demand, she shifted her eyes onto him.

"If you wish. But I should hope that you then exercise more power over the dead than you are now doing."

"What do you say?" Janus questioned sharply, much frustrated by the fact that she still had not quenched the lamp.

"Turn about, then," she replied simply, motioning her hand to a place behind her brother.

He turned sharply, then started so suddenly that he nearly fell to the ground. In fear Serge wondered how Schala had been so calm a moment before. Behind Janus a pair of menacing eyes glowered, the being to which they belonged either hidden in the shadows, or simply a part of them.

"Curses," he murmured, seeing the eyes so close to where he sat.

"Tinkalach! Tarsad tagel!" he whispered shortly, sweeping his hand with a motion of command.

The eyes shimmered more darkly for a moment, and Serge feared that they would not relent. But the power of Janus was greater than they, and an instant later they dimmed and faded back into the darkness from where they had come.

"Ah! Elth aith asant il tina diomo, brother? You see," Schala said gravely, "even you can be taken unawares. Moreover, if you look out to sea, what is there?"

Janus looked out into the blackness, his keen eyes attempting to pierce the night.

"Nothing," he said at last. "I cannot see anything."

Schala nodded, looking upward.

"And above us, what do you see there?"

The other three all cast their gaze skyward, wondering at what she meant. There sat the moon, its silver glow the only light besides that of the lamp. For a moment they did not see anything amiss. Then Serge understood.

"There are no stars," he said, slightly worried. He would have accounted this to an overcast sky, but the moon shone clear, free of clouds.

"That's right," Schala answered as the others once more took to looking at her. "If we cannot see so much as the stars, and cannot see the lights of the galleons, do you truly think that those following us would see one small lantern?"

None answered. They all, Janus as well anybody, knew the truth of the matter. As much as he disliked being proven wrong, he knew his sister was right in this.

"And," she continued, adding to her argument, "I truly doubt that they would be fool enough to set foot on this island at night, as we have been."

"It was not foolish, my sister," Janus replied crossly, not overlooking the accusations against his counsel any longer.

"If not foolish, it certainly was not wisdom," Schala muttered under her breath.

"Schala, let us not argue any longer," Crono said, having somehow overheard her. "Morning will prove Janus right or wrong. We take watches, two at a time. Janus, it would be best that you and I take first watch," he added, looking pointedly over to Schala.

Janus nodded, wrapping his cloak about him.

"Serge, you and Schala try and get some rest," Crono commanded, sitting down cross-legged. "Your watch will come soon enough."

Serge attempted to sleep, as did Schala. But, for several reasons, no rest found them. Firstly, for Serge, who was accustomed to sleeping in a bed rather than outdoors, the rough earth made finding rest difficult. Secondly, and even worse, the brooding feelings of evil and darkness that had haunted their minds on the walk seemed even more potent as they unguarded their minds in preparation for sleep. Into Serge's tired mind phantoms of dark memories crept. At times he half saw his now long dead nemesis Lynx rise up in front of him in the darkness, his piercing cat's eyes glaring menacingly. At others his mind recalled with awful clarity the bloodied knife with which Lynx had stabbed Kid, whilst he had been unable to help her. Amidst such imaginings of horror and fear, Serge could find no rest. Finally he sat up, hoping at the least to dispel his half-dreams. Schala, he saw, also sat up.

"I'm afraid we'll find no rest here, Serge," she said with a short yawn, "no matter how tired we may be."

"You cannot sleep?" Crono called from where he held watch.

Schala shook her head.

"Whenever I shut my eyes," she said with a shiver of fear, "I see Lavos. I feel his presence as I did in the Tesseract. An echo of an evil memory, nothing more. But I cannot overcome it, at least not enough to sleep. You and Janus rest. Serge and I will keep watch."

"I," the voice of Janus said with uncommon frailty, "I do not think I shall be able to find rest either."

Serge peered into the dim edges of the light where Janus sat at his place. It made him shiver to see the wizard so for the flickering lamplight made him appear as a ghost himself, his sunken and sharp features more akin to a terror of the night than a living man.

"Janus?" Schala queried with concern, "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Es adah saio aith aichos," he replied with some distance in his voice, "but I would that you not speak to me, and allow me my peace."

What it was that haunted his mind, whether some dark memory from the past or simply the evil of the place, he did not say. And none of them sought to question him further. But try as he might Crono could not sleep either, and finally they all resigned themselves to remaining awake throughout the night. To keep their minds from darkness, and partly in fear from the groans and haunted whispers that swept the island, they took to tale telling. Serge spent time recounting those of his adventures that the others knew little of whilst the others listened quietly. This Crono too took up in his turn, telling of his last battle with the great evil Lavos. Even Janus broke his wonted silence to give his words of embellishment to this tale. To Serge it sounded as though it had been epic, a great battle more dire and incredible than any he had faced in his time. When they had finished, however, Schala hinted to him quietly that it had been twenty years since that duel, and that in the telling the details may have been made to seem grander than they truly were; that it was unlikely that Janus had single handedly wrestled with Lavos before Crono had struck the creature the death blow. Or, moreover, that they had exchanged insults with the Evil (greatly though Crono professed this to be true).

But Serge did not care overmuch if the facts were left behind somewhat. The talk of vanquishing evil and brighter futures had a way of clearing away the gloom that sat in their minds and made the night pass more swiftly. So, even as Schala was beginning to speak a few words of her own, a tale long forgotten that came out of ancient Zeal, the first rays of the dawn sun touched upon them. The four stood to greet the sun wearily, though much relieved that morning had come at last.

"Aha!" Crono yelled jubilantly as his eyes sought the ocean. "I was wrong to doubt your counsel, Janus! We have come safely through the night, and now have evaded those seeking us."

He looked out to the sea with a smile upon his lips, seeing the five galleons drawing in their anchors.

"They shall never think to look for us behind them, and so I trust that we can now come safely to Guardia."

Janus proudly rose beside him, sharing in the sight.

"As always, I have chosen rightly. Next time, do not doubt me."

Schala herself stole but a fleeting glance to the distant seas. She shrugged, though without any smile.

"Your luck has held true, brother," she whispered from behind into his ear as she passed him. "For now. I foresee it will not always be so. It is always the weakest that defeat you, not the strongest."

He turned his eyes to look to where she walked away from him, as if she had not said a word.

"Whatever for do you say that, Schala?" he asked with a curious confusion in his tone.

She turned slowly, a grim smile crossing her lips.

"Too long have you been fortunate. Never does fortune last forever. And as you said those words, a chill of foreboding crossed my mind."

He blinked and looked at her searchingly in confusion.

"Your ways are strange, my sister. I do not doubt you, but I also know that you yourself cannot wholly see what it is that is shown to you. Take care that you are not overzealous in your dire predictions, sister," he returned carefully.

She cast up her hands in silent submission, and turned her eyes away from him.

"Well now, let us make for the boats," Crono said, breaking the silence that followed their words.

Serge nodded, feeling all the more as a follower in this adventure as its hours passed. It had not been so the last time, but here he felt no desire to lead. Perhaps it was the company of more stern and determined leaders than he, or maybe it only meant he was finally finding his place in this quest. This he hoped. He did not care if he was to be a follower the whole road, so long as he knew what fate was upon him. Still...

"Halt!" Crono whispered harshly, raising his hand in alarm. As swiftly as a hunted deer he leaped into hiding amidst the rocks. Serge and the others also sought hiding places, looking questioningly to Crono.

"Quiet!" he said near silently. He motioned urgently over the rocks at a nearby gully that their path led into.

From their hidden places they could see nothing. The grim terrain brooded in silent menace, and the sea wind wandered slowly in from the ocean, stale from passing over the land. Serge raised his hands in question, unsure as to their sudden furtiveness.

But then he the voices, barely carrying up the cleft in the rocks to his ears.

"Captain Norris, if I were to offer my opinion...," he heard a voice say. It stopped as if interrupted by a quick reply, but he could not mark what was said in reply. Norris. Little wonder they had had such trouble evading the galleons. He was no fool, Serge remembered. But the last time his quick minded stratagems and war-skills had been used to aid Serge. He found himself wondering if they should not surrender themselves, and find some way to bring Norris back to his rightful memories. But his contemplations were stilled, for the voices continued, now louder and presumably closer.

"Sir, I do not think they would have spent the night on this damned island. I didn't even know an accursed place like this existed. Bones and rot everywhere, even in the daylight," the one who had spoked before continued.

"Peace, lieutenant. You're new to the Black Wind. I've been hunting this 'prince of Guardia' for near to two years now. I've underestimated him once too often to think lightly of him."

Serge shook his head. Norris had been hunting Crono for two years? Norris had never told him that before. Then again, there had been no reason to do so. To Serge himself Crono's name had meant next to nothing until the last day.

"Sir!" a new voice interrupted hastily. "The sorcerers say that they cannot sense a thing on this island. Our magic is blind here."

For a moment there was a pause. Then Norris spoke again.

"Shrewd. A wise move, Crono," he said, speaking noticeably to the wind. "I was too eager to capture you, and in reaching out my hand to ensnare you have had you yet again slip from my grasp. No matter. Wherever you may be, wherever you flee to, you will yet be mine," he said with resolution, then continued in command to his soldiers. "Return to the ships. They have a night's sailing on us. We must be swift if we wish to overtake them now."

With heavy footfalls the sounds of the troop faded down the hills and in return to the shore. When only the whispers and groans of the isle met their ears, they felt it safe to stand again.

"You know Norris?" Serge asked of Crono as they cautiously crept down the cleft and along the shoreward paths.

Crono nodded, carefully leaping down a small cliff that fell downward some twenty feet.

"This is not the same path we followed upward, Janus," Crono said curiously.

"Verily, it is, Crono. But come now! You cannot expect this island to be faithful to truth. But can you not feel it? It is full of deception," Janus replied cryptically, landing with surprising lightness at Crono's side.

"A memory of Lavos," Crono muttered. "His shadow lingers yet in forgotten corners of this planet, I see..."

Schala followed the first two down, albeit with more grace.

Finally Serge, carefully judging his fall, dropped down.

"You didn't answer me," Serge said to Crono, halting him in his tracks.

"Yes, I know Captain Norris," Crono said bitterly. "And I know well enough that you were comrades with him once. But he has been a thorn in my side these last two years."

He turned, a grim anger on his face.

"It was his trap that ensnared Marle two months ago," Crono said. "He is a shrewd commander of men. Whatever he may be to you, until some great deed shows me otherwise, he is my mortal enemy, and I will not pause to kill him if I have the chance. I half wish Janus had done so three nights ago. It would have spared us much difficulty, I think."

"He is a good person," Serge argued weakly. "He really thinks you're evil, otherwise he wouldn't hunt you down like he is."

"And who shall tell him otherwise, Serge? You?" Crono asked. "No. Remember, he does not know you anymore. He may not be evil at heart but he is, willing or unwilling, the pawn of Porre, and so is at needs my enemy."

"Can't you forgive him, Crono? Somehow have him join your side?"

But Crono laughed.

"Join my side? The great captain Norris breaking faith with the Empire to fight alongside a brigand? Ha, that is a laughing matter. But I see, now, why you say this: you're too kind-hearted. I used to be very much like that, but twenty years has hardened me. No, I fear that Norris is very much my enemy, as is he yours now. I am sorry. I know it is difficult to find yourself at odds with an old friend, but that is how things need be in this tale."

Serge shook his head thoughtfully. He could not bring himself to believe that Norris, great-hearted Norris, was now his enemy. He could not shake the hope, naive though he knew it to be, that through some twist of fate Norris might see that he served the wrong side and come to ally with Serge again.

"Serge?"

It was Schala that now spoke.

"You alright?" she asked in concern, fixing her piercing eyes on him.

"Fine. I just hope it doesn't come to..."

"To fighting old friends," she answered for him. "I know. You forget that I, too, knew Norris. A good man, as you say. But as a servant of our enemies he is a dangerous foe."

"You three talk too long," Janus muttered, taking up stride down the path. "At this rate it shall be twilight again before we reach the boats. Enough of this worrying and childish naivety. What will come will come, and you, Serge," he said, casting his crimson eyes Serge's direction, "can do yourself no good in contemplating these things so much. You would do well to pay less heed to your feelings and more to the sense of your mind."

The three glanced amongst themselves and found that, with those words, their conversation had come to an end. So it was in relative silence they struggled their way down the slopes of the island.

Why had he come along on this? Serge continued to wonder as he followed his comrades. To what purpose and end was he needed? Because Schala had insisted upon it, he concluded. She had admonished Crono to seek him out, he remembered. She it was who had sent out her comrades in an attempt to draw him from his village so that she might speak to him. Were her feelings of gratitude to him that great that? Perhaps, though something troubled him, and he could not place what it was. But at the very least her summoning of him from his peace had served some greater purpose than a simple thanks. Crono did indeed need his help, though he found himself now unsure as to what his part was to be. But to fight friends... he did not think that he could bring himself to do such a thing. He did not have the will.

But perhaps Janus had spoken wisely, he decided. Such things one cannot know till one is tested, and that time was not yet upon him yet. To wonder the outcome of a trial days or months in his future was to no avail. He checked his mind of his thoughts therefore, and forced a peace onto his heart. Fate would reveal his part in this in the eventuality of time. Time would tell...

----

From that day onward their luck held true. They gained the boats without trouble, and were on the seas again before mid-morning was upon them. Having now slipped behind their pursuers they found themselves safe from most any danger, save that of the sea itself. And it, they found, took a fond liking to them. Small winds whipped about the seas as is usually the case, but they met no storms. At least nothing that was out of Serge's skill to weather. In this time Serge learned much about Crono, and for his part he recounted all that he could remember of his own life. Schala listened much, but also gave her own tales (most often tales of daring that she had experienced in her life as Kid, by Serge's side, but also some more ancient ones from Zeal) . So it was that the trip went by swiftly, and not unpleasantly. When finally they sighted Guardia in the far distance it was the morning of the fifteenth of October, a full half month since setting out from El Nido. It was a chill day and the sky was filled with wisps of cloud.

Long though the sail had been, Serge did not begrudge it. He found that he had made as firm a friendship with Crono as he had ever had with any of the others he had travelled with, save that which he had had and still held with Kid herself. And for his part he felt that his old strength was returning to him. Slowly, certainly, but rising none the less. He no longer felt out of place in the group, and could think of few others whose company he would rather share in friendship.

Looking up across the bow of the boat Serge saw for the first the rocky coasts that lined the western ridges of the great land that had once been Guardia. Great cliffs, grim in the wan light of the autumn sun, cut from the rocks of the land through a thousand thousand years of waves beating upon those shores. The cliff-tops were no less than fifty feet from the surf, affording no place to beach the boats. They would have to sail the length of the coast in order to find a landing beach.

"The western coasts of Guardia," Crono pointed out to Serge needlessly. It seemed altogether grim to look upon those stony shores and cliffs upon which the surf broke violently. His own homeland near always, winter or summer regardless, seemed alive with abundant colours. The palm trees grew eternally green along golden beaches, and the sky most often was a cloudless blue. But not here. Here the hues of the land seemed to be in shades of grey and brown, and the green that crowned the landscape seemed somewhat more glum than at home. It was old, full of much history. And it was into this grim and ancient land that his destiny led him, he knew.

"It is Fall, and the western coasts are never a glad sight to see," Crono said, seeing that Serge doubtfully contemplated the land. "The east is far more pleasant, and autumn has beauty of its own in my country."

Serge nodded. Whatever it might appear as to him, this at least was true: they had reached Guardia at long last.

It took the better part of the day to sail the coasts. The great cliffs, Serge discovered, were quite common along the seashore. And, moreover, they had sailed too far north. As Crono told him, to go ashore here would be of little use. To come to the villages and towns of Guardia they would have to go south as it was. It would be a swifter journey to do by sea.

But it was not a long one, however. By twilight they at last found themselves with only the eastward journey across the fields and woods of Guardia remaining, and so went ashore.

As night fell the group had managed to set up a crude camp in a small stretch of stony beach that lay between the sea and the eaves of a dark forest that Crono said were named the Heckran Woods. They sat around the small campfire, the chill evening wind still managing to bite into their skin. Serge shivered and crept closer to the warm flames of the burning fire. Meanwhile they held council regarding what their plans should be. Crono was the first to speak, being the natural leader of the party.

"So, we are in Guardia at last," he said, tossing a branch into the flames where it sparked and was engulfed, "Now we must decide what we will do. If my counsel were to be heeded, our first mission is to free the person who is missing from this league," he paused for a moment, "or whatever it may be called."

Crono stood and began pacing around, his breath leaving grew plumes of smoke evaporating into the night air.

"Marle. Certainly not only because she is my wife, but for her war-skill: her touch with a crossbow is remarkable, as I am sure you will remember, Janus. And," he continued, "not to be forgotten, her healing sorcery is likely unparalleled in all this world. We will have need of that in time, no matter how good our luck may seem."

Serge and Schala nodded their agreement silently, all the while creeping nearer to the warmth of the campfire. Neither had much liking to the chill weather native to Guardia. Janus, for his part, didn't reply, and Crono took his silence as affirmation.

"Now, this is a difficult matter as she is certainly imprisoned within the strongest fastness in the land. This is, without doubt, the castle of Guardia."

This stirred Janus from his silence.

"And in what way is this a problem, praytell?"

"It means that we will not be wandering in the front gate, at any rate. Not without an army at our heels," Crono replied.

Janus gave a short laugh that showed his disdain for this over-caution, as he saw it.

"You had little problem doing so when you assaulted my fortress. Why, Crono, I think you are becoming fearful in your age."

Crono cast Janus a vexed look.

"Janus, that was twenty years ago. Over four hundred years by the reckoning of history. Regardless, it was a very long time ago. We were young then; brave and fearless, yet reckless and foolish. Almost it was our undoing there. I would that we do things differently now, and not tempt fate yet again."

"Aha! So you _are_ weak now, and frightened of death. My, my, you're getting cowardly. What happened to that fearless young boy who defied _me_, the great Sorcerer of the Mystics, in my very own fortress, and lived to defy the mighty demon Lavos?"

Crono laughed at Janus' taunting mockery; it had been many a long year since he had heard it so, and it brought to memory his youth, when the wizard had ever spoken to him so.

"He grew up and learned wisdom to temper his wild heart. I was fortunate, that was all."

"And yet you did succeed, in spite of me. And, you know well what is said, that fortune favours the bold."

Crono laughed, his voice echoing deeply throughout the cold night air.

"Ha! Perhaps. Such things are never without truth, but it should end with 'for a time'. It abandons its favoured when they need it most. We both remember the disaster that befell us at the Ocean Palace."

Janus muttered to himself.

"And yet chance and fate saw to it that that did work for the best, in the end."

Crono merely shook his head.

"Nevermind. No, we cannot do that here. These Porre soldiers are hardly fools as your captains were. At your fortress they were so arrogant that they opened the doors to us, thinking us but little danger."

Janus sat back with another laugh.

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten my pitiful Field-Lord. That fool underestimated you to the last."

Schala stood up and broke into the prattle between the to.

"Enough of the past, I am beyond caring. What of the future? What of tomorrow? For what it's worth Janus, I agree with Crono. Stealth would serve us far better."

Crono nodded.

"So wisdom agrees with me. As I was saying, we must find another way of achieving this end. We may be mighty, but remember: but one arrow can still kill us, as it can anybody. And we cannot face too many foes or else be overwhelmed. No, indeed, we cannot risk raising the whole castle against us."

Serge turned from his spot by the fire.

"And I guess you already have this planned out, or something?"

Crono nodded.

"Yes, I do have a faint idea. Only a small chance, but it is worth a try, at the least."

He knelt down beside the fire and, drawing out a knife, began sketching in the dirt a simple map of the fortress. "Inside the castle is an ancient cathedral. It is built as part of the outer wall," he continued, motioning to what he had etched. "And this cathedral is connected to a small system of old catacombs where many of the kings and nobles are buried from the early centuries of Guardia. I have only been down there on occasion, but I'm near sure that there is some channel into it from outside the walls."

Janus laughed at this, saying:

"But you don't know with certainty, do you?"

Crono stood with some frustration.

"Certainly not, but we will find a way. If all else fails we can climb the battlements, and assault the prisons from the top."

Janus sneered and shook his head.

"The front is still the wiser choice, if any should ever listen to me."

"Oh, shut up you fool, will you!" Schala shouted. "Cease mocking him, Janus. This is most serious!"

Serge broke in, standing from his spot on the cold ground.

"Which of us should go then. If we're going to try and sneak in, I think only two of us should go."

Crono frowned in thought for a second, and at last said:

"I agree. Two can guard each other better than one, but with three we are too many and would be spotted. All right then, this will be our plan. In the morning we will make for Truce village. Several days journey from here, but it is my old home, and within less than half a days walk of Guardia castle. Then we'll wait for nightfall and, while you and Janus wait for us," he nodded to Schala, "Serge and I will attempt this."

"Why him?" Janus asked, standing up, his face glowing like a spectre in the soft light of the moon and fire.

"I am more powerful. Why not me, or my even my sister."

"Because, little brother," Schala laughed in interruption to his protest, "you're likely to try and take on the entire castle on your own. And somebodies gotta watch you and make sure you stay out of trouble."

Janus sneered at her and moved off into the shadows, sulking.

Schala chuckled grimly at this.

"He is...too sure of his own power. Much too sure," she said breaking off into a mutter.

Anyway," she continued, raising her voice again, "Crono, I agree with you."

She pulled her dagger from her side and examined its glinting blade in the firelight.

"Ah, I had hoped never to have to use this again."

"But such are the times we find ourselves in," Crono replied, "and our hope is often betrayed with reality. No, to go to war is not a choice I would gladly make. But I have been fighting too long to not see the obvious truth. It may be unavoidable if Guardia is to be reborn. Never do things come about without some sacrifice. For almost every good that is accomplished, some evil occurs, someone must suffer. That is the way with things, the balance in this cursed world."

Schala nodded, still looking at the knife upon which the shimmer of the campfire danced crimson.

"Yes, I know that certainly. That wisdom my years of grief have taught me. But, we shall not worry our hearts with such things now, upon the eve of a quest..."

She looked around the fire, studying the group gathered, her darkened countenance breaking into a smile.

"Once again are some gathered together to defy the order of the world. And here we have those who have passed the bounds of time," she looked to Crono, "survived the shadow," she nodded to Janus, who still sat in the darkness, "and have crossed the doors between the dimensions," she concluded, allowing her gaze to rest on Serge.

"What a company," she said distantly, looking up absently to the stars as she paused in her words.

After a moment she returned her gaze to the party, continuing her speaking, "Unlike any that was ever before. Together," she said with a smile, nodding her head knowingly. "Together, if we remain united and undivided, we could do much. The hope that is inspired by heroes may call to the hearts of simple folk and people unforseen valour, and that is the power that has felled many a mighty empire since the beginning of the world."

Crono smiled, glancing about the group.

"Well, here are the heroes!" he cried gladly.

Schala nodded, and said:

"And I, for one, swear that so long as this company lasts, so long as but one other remains, I shall remain forever faithful and loyal to you," she looked around at them each in turn. "So long as I still have life and breath in me I shall be ever there in my friends' need, and shall not forsake them, though either pain or death be the path. And let anyone gainsay that oath at his peril!"

She flung her dagger back into the scabbard. Serge was quick to respond.

"I'll swear to that also. I swear on my sword, the holy sword Masamune, that I will be always loyal to the three of you."

Crono swung out his own sword and held the grip to his heart, the blade pointing down, glinting red in the firelight.

"And I on this, my rainbow sword made of the craft of ancient Zeal, which dealt death unto the demon Lavos, will swear to the same. Amicus usque ad aras, as the Romans would say. Let only death break this vow."

Janus chuckled. He had rarely had much use for oaths. Yet he too knew what loyalty was, and honour was in him also. He once before swore to protect his sister, no matter what, and by that oath he still bound himself. Therefore he too stepped into the firelight and, for the first time since Serge had seen him, a true smile, not of darkness, crossed his lips.

"And I, Janus, prince of the ancient kingdom of Zeal that is now beneath the waves, swear to keep this promise, too. Let us be justly feared by our enemies, for now the Lord Magus fights along side as a brother."

Schala smiled even more so than before.

"Excellent! So tomorrow we set forth once more, and may the dawn bring us a beautiful day on which to begin this quest, the quest to restore the throne of Guardia. But now," she broke into a smile, "Now I'm bloody tired and want to sleep."

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)


	9. The Land of the Black Dragon

CHAPTER VIII

**THE LAND OF THE BLACK DRAGON

* * *

**

The dawn found Serge cold and shivering. The northern climate was far removed from that which he called home. In El Nido not the coldest winter night was as chill as this, a sunny autumn morning. But upon looking around he saw the others had already risen, and were preparing to set out on their journey across Guardia. And so he, too, albeit grudgingly, got up.

"So, we're going to your village then, Crono?" he asked as he shook the sleep from his head.

Crono turned to him from where he was packing up the remnants of the previous night's camp.

"Yes, to Truce we go. And I hope that we may find a welcome there. Though it is several days journey till we reach it. By tonight we should come to the small town of Heathglade that lies along the southern eaves of the wood." He looked past Serge into the woodlands that lay beyond, at the forests that they would have to cross.

"Thence it is five days journey to Truce. But I am gladdened that at the least we are in Guardia. The land whose banners bear the black dragon. Much lies ahead of us," he finished, and returned to the supplies.

Serge turned to the woods that lay before them. The gnarled and ashen trees grew thickly in what seemed to be pathless forests. The trunks, thick as any he had ever seen, showed the trees to be ancient, perhaps having stood there since the rise of Guardia itself. Into the woods themselves he could not see far, yet it was a dismal looking place, and he did not look forward to crossing it, despite having faith in Crono's ability to guide them through.

Then, on a sudden, as he stood staring, it seemed to Serge that a foreboding wind of some dark fate whispered from the eaves. A breeze like to that he had felt once before when, on a time, he had been upon the brink of ruin. Into his mind flashed a sudden image, as if the future were once again calling out to him in warning. Someone perished?

"Serge?" Schala questioned, coming up beside him, for she had noticed his overlong gaze upon the woods.

He started out of his thoughts, and the image fled from memory. He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the uncertainty.

"Nothing," he muttered, still unsure as to what he had just envisioned.

But she looked at him, a disbelieving gaze upon her face.

"Once before you said that. At the doors to the throne room of the Dragons. Then you saw our defeat, and by some reason saw my fall at Lynx' hands. Do you see such a thing now? Come now! Some foresight at least is yours. If fate has shown you a shadow of the things to come, then tell me. I charge you as my friend to speak, for this has not been shown to you without reason."

He fought to recall his vision.

"Someone...will die," he said finally, though the words came from his lips strangely, as if they were not his own.

"The image is gone, only a fleeting thought remains. Who I saw, I can't say."

Schala narrowed her eyes sharply toward the woods, as if trying to capture what Serge had seen. But what she sought eluded her, and only the trees met her gaze. She shook her head, a grim look upon her face.

"I do not see it. But I fear what it portends. We must be on guard," she paused, and breathed in deeply of the wind coming from the woods.

"But whatever fate awaits us, I perceive it is beyond those woods. This at least I can see: whatever has been shown you is not upon us yet. It but comes to you from beyond the forest, an echo from a day yet to come."

Crono walked between them, and looked at each of them in turn.

"This is most disconcerting. I do not have gifts of prophesy, but I will not dismiss your feelings Schala, nor yours Serge. But if it is the fate of one of us to die, so be it. I for one shall not flee from my destiny. Even so, the Heckran woods are far from a safe journey, and I do not seek death needlessly. But this is why I travel them: I fear the woodland beasts less than the armies of Porre. Nonetheless, guard yourselves, and be wary of our coming fate," he nodded to the distance, "whatever that may be."

And so they made their way cautiously into the depths of the forest. As Serge had indeed seen from a distance, the woods were overgrown and not easily traversed. Thick twigs and brush netted their way across their path like the monstrous webs of some giant spider. These Crono struck away with his sword, clearing the path for a short time. Yet ever and again the path would be overgrown, and their going seemed fretfully slow. Moreover, the dense canopy of ashen trees, roofed with dark green boughs, let in scarcely any sunlight, making for an ever present grey twilight upon the forest floor, which was strewn with the dry leaves of a dozen autumns. And the air seemed near dead in his lungs, chokingly stale with decay and age. A dry feeling of death, Serge thought. Whereas the Isle had teemed with evil thought and breathed the stale wind of things dead, this place seemed to harbor its malice at a distance, hidden from sight or thought. Not so evil, perhaps, but disconcerting in its own way nonetheless. A lack of sunlight, he finally decided. The Isle saw the sun for half the day, at the least. But not so here, where the towering trees blocked the rays, dimming life itself.

"Isn't there anything alive in here?" he whispered half to himself on seeing the utter lack of even the meanest bird or squirrel.

Janus turned in response to his words, nodding in agreement, slight unsettlement even upon his usually self assured tone.

"I, too, wonder. Seldom have I seen a place so dead. Even the trees seem near death."

"So are the Heckran woods," said Crono from the lead, without turning, clearing away another entanglement with a swift stroke of his sword, "but the creatures are not absent. They merely hide in the shadows and do not show themselves." He nodded his head in way of the deep undergrowth at his side, "any number of fell creatures wait here to waylay the unwary traveller. They hide to strike unexpected, though I doubt that they will risk a company of four. Do not forget: this is still Guardia, and that is my home. This place I know well enough. And it is not truly evil, as the Isle was. If it appears so, it is but an illusion of you mind, come about from of this place's darkness and emptiness."

"Halt!" Schala whispered suddenly as Crono's last words trailed off.

The other three looked at her.

"Schala?" Serge asked, seeing her eyes and ears suddenly alert.

"Crono's right," she replied. "Can you not feel it, Janus? There are eyes watching us."

Janus peered about him, then nodded in agreement.

"Dark eyes with a dark purpose. Heckrans, unless my wits fail me."

Schala nodded.

"Be on guard. Such things pose little danger to us, but even so I should not like to be caught unawares."

Even so she glanced nervously about at the still threat of the trees, and Serge followed her gaze. He shivered coldly, though no wind blew.

"Let's get moving. I'd rather not spend the night in this place."

"To that, I agree," Crono said.

For many hours they travelled warily, Serge ever fearing some swift stroke to come at them from the trees. Yet his fears were not realized and, though the eyes never ceased marking their passing, no attack came. The light was failing into true twilight before they finally broke once again from the eaves of the forest into a large clearing. In the midst of this space lay strewn rocks and masonry, the ruins of a once large stone building.

"Manoria cathedral," Crono said before Serge could ask. "It was a fortress of the Mystics some few hundred years ago, but has long since fallen into ruin."

Serge wandered nearer to it, peering closely at what remained. For the most part the chapel was still standing, albeit without a roof. The inside lay strewn with fallen stones and dust.

Carefully watching the walls, wary of stones yet to fall, Crono made his way to the far end of the chapel.

"There are no Mystics remaining," Crono said to Serge, seeing that his friend was not quite willing to enter the building.

"We're spending the night here?" Serge asked, not preferring this ruin even over the dark woods.

Crono turned, passing another swift glance about him at the fallen stones.

"No, I would not think so. I merely thought it a thing of interest to see, as we were passing near. I would not wish to spend the night here unless some need were pressing me. Tired we may be, but I for one yearn to again sleep under a roof, and not amidst an accursed ruin. In Heathglade we shall find welcome enough, though I doubt we will gain it before mid-night."

Janus nodded in silent agreement, though Serge saw that it plainly mattered little to him.

And so they continued on their journey through the woods as the shadow lengthened. Finally the draping veil of night fell fully, and the forest was whelmed in utter darkness. In this night, starless as it was because of the treetops, their going was indeed slower and, though no creatures dared assault them even amidst the shadows, the simple brambles and bracken were obstacles enough. In the lead Crono kept them from the thickest of the underbrush. But even his keen forest eyes were hard done by to see through the darkness. But he had skills other than sight, and he was as good a woodsman as any. And so, even as he had predicted, it was well into the night when the lights of the small town of Heathglade finally met their eyes. As it was it was little of the village itself could be seen, the meagre lights flickering in some few windows casting but dim shadows of light about the buildings.

They were taken in by a poor family of peasants who kindly offered them all of what they had. Crono, however, would in no way make them a burden to these good people who he knew had little enough of their own. He refused all that was offered, save that of a place to stay away from the eyes of Porre, and even in this they slept upon the floor. They had a hasty meal from their own provisions, sharing from what they had with the family who seemed to need such food much more than they themselves. Guardia, it seemed, had fallen upon hard times of late.

The morning found them rested, and thankful that they had not chosen to while the night away in another accursed corner of the world. They gave their thanks to the peasants, Crono presenting them with what he could spare from his provisions, and left even as the dawn was breaking. This the better to avoid the ever wary eyes of the Empire. Even such a small town might have some soldier passing through and, though this was not a mortal danger, Crono did not wish to reveal his return over soon, before his purposes where full wrought. And it was not unlikely that some of the people of Guardia had turned in these hard times as well, hoping to betray even their King for some scant hope of rich reward and better life.

Crono indeed knew the lay of his land well enough. The third night now since coming to Guardia they spent in the woods, though being now well beyond the Western regions it was not fully unpleasant. Whereas the Western Heckran Woods were an ancient and dying forest, the Great Wood that spanned the interior of the land was a forest of great and beautiful trees. Serge marvelled at the mighty Oaks that stood as regal kings of trees amidst the forest, and at the willows, whose long hanging branches swayed gently in the evening winds. And, being autumn, the leaves were not only green, but aflame with a multitude of hues from crimson to gold. Here also the birds flitted about swiftly, chirping in merry song from sunrise to set. Serge admitted that it was as beautiful as Crono had professed it to be. That night sleep came easily to the company, and was pleasant and restful.

The third day dawned bright and clear, by far the warmest of the three that Serge had felt. It was also the most dangerous. They were now in the central lands and knew that Porre would be ever more present as they neared Truce. Patrols wandered the plains, and on occasion even the woods, though being only four the company had the advantage.

An hour after sunset on the fifth day, even as Crono had predicted, they arrived in Truce.

"Second, third..." Crono muttered as they slunk down an outlying street. "And fourth. This is the one. I received word several months ago that this house would be open to me if I would have need."

He knocked once, shortly, upon the door.

"Gorlois and Igrayne. They are an old family of Guardia that were once friends of mine, long before I was called royalty. Even so, I pray we do not trouble them too much. They have a children, and so it is hard enough in these days."

The door opened slowly, and a stern man looked with narrowing eyes out into the night at the company.

"Lord Crono, is it you?" he asked cautiously.

Crono nodded.

"Certainly, it is. But please, we should not stand here so. Is your house open to us?"

"Yes," the man replied, "of course. Come in."

He led them inside into a small room lit with the dim light of a small candle. In one corner a faltering fire burned in a hearth, making the inside at least somewhat warmer than the outdoors. Serge, Janus, and Schala, shivering and cold at once took to warming themselves as best they could. Crono for his part closed the door behind him and greeted the man again. From a far room a woman stepped and looked upon Crono with astonishment; they had certainly not expected his arrival.

"Ah, now! Gorlois and Igrayne, I have not seen you in many a year. Is all well with you?" Crono asked with a smile, "How goes our land? I trust it is as I have left it."

The two peasants exchanged a fleeting look of concern, then paused not speaking any words.

"It is not?" Crono asked, the concern that the two shared now passing into his face. "However so?"

"Taxes, for one," the man said. "And not simply our gold. Truce has been taxed nearly to starvation. It seems that Porre wants our land eternally hungry."

Crono hardened his face in anger, pacing across the room of the house.

"Not unexpected, however. They do not want us well enough to fight. They fear us."

"And there is more, my lord," the woman said, her voice seeming near desperation. "There is talk. There is a reward on your life..."

"As there has always been," Crono said with little concern. "But they have yet to capture me."

"But it is different now," the woman continued, her voice falling to a hush. "There have been whispers that if you do not surrender yourself to them, they will burn the villages of Guardia."

"Burn them?!" Crono cried, aghast. "They would not. Even they could not do something so evil."

The man nodded grimly.

"It is more than talk. This was proclaimed today," he said in a failing voice, drawing a small scroll from the folds of his cloak.

Crono took it from his shaking hands and looked carefully over it. From where he stood Serge could not see what was written, but at the end was the embossed symbol of the chimera. Crono read the words silently, all the while his countenance dark.

When he had finished, he looked up and glanced about the room at the other three that sat yet before the fire.

"Porre has gone too far," he said simply. Yet in his voice they plainly heard his anger.

"They have proclaimed that they shall put to fire one town every fortnight till I surrender myself to their justice, as they call it. Every town, starting with Truce itself."

"Tactically, it is a good decision," Janus said. "I am amazed they have not done so already."

"Tactically?" Crono said. "This is not a war stratagem, Janus. This is cowardice, and desperation." He paused, and took up a distant gaze. "They fear me. Only now do I see how much."

He walked with heavy steps to the fire.

"Curses upon them and their cruelty," he said hoarsely, casting the proclamation into the flames where it charred to ash in moments.

"What will you do now?" Schala asked softly. "Choose your path carefully. I warn you not act rashly at this unexpected change."

"No," Crono said, smiling grimly. "I shall do as I have always intended. What I have known I must do for every day of the last fifteen years. And I will not cast my plans astray."

"But you're going to rescue Marle, right?" Serge asked, glancing up at him.

Crono nodded in affirmation.

"Yes, for a start. If they fear my fury so, let them not cower without reason. I'll leave as soon as the faithful of Truce know of my return. Tomorrow night, if all goes well, I shall try for the castle."

He took a glance out the window. In the furthest distance the flame of a watch light on the battlements of the castle twinkled as a star.

"Yes, one day should be enough," he murmured. "But this is not all I must do. Even when Marle joins us and we are five we will not have the power to overthrow Porre. We can begin, deal the first strokes, but without an army our rebellion will be for naught. We need the people on our side, ready to go to war."

He paused somewhat, looking gravely at Schala and Janus.

"Janus, to you and Schala I entrust an assignment even more urgent than my own. Having now returned and seen into what despair my land has fallen, I dare not wait any longer."

"You have chosen to go to war, then?" Janus asked, some dark joy in his voice.

"Though the counsel of my mind warns me against it, I cannot do otherwise. I fear for the future of my people and my land," he said, looking over to where the peasant family were now putting their children to bed.

"Are you certain of this, Crono?" Schala asked gravely. "Seldom in history has war been wholly successful. You may not gain all you seek through this course."

"Nevertheless," Crono replied, "it is my choice. Serge, we will not be leaving till tomorrow night, but even so it may be good counsel to ready yourself," he added, nodding is Serge's direction.

"And this thing you would have us do?" Janus asked, his tone still bitter about being left absent from the quest to free Marle.

"Rally the people, Janus. Incite them to rise up."

"Would this not be a better thing for you to do?" Janus asked skeptically. "They hardly know me. What am I to them but an evil sorcerer from the bedtime tales? Without doubt they even now use my name as a fear to their children. Will that not be pleasant: their legendary terror walking in their village gates."

"I must go rescue Marle," Crono said, "but must also raise my army. Here, take these."

He reached out his had into the pack at his side and gave to Janus a small pile of papers. Janus looked at them curiously, his eyes looking across the hastily scrawled words on the pages.

"These are orders to war," Janus said, looking up once again.

Crono nodded.

"Written by me, and each bearing my own seals. The captains of my land will recognize them as mine."

Crono took from his finger one of the rings he wore and placed it in Janus' hand.

"That is my own signet ring as prince. When you bear it my captains will submit themselves to your authority as if it were my own."

Casting the ring into his own trappings Janus turned to Crono again.

"And where may I find these leaders?" Janus asked, now finally seeing the part Crono had laid out for him, and feeling the better for it.

"Truthfully," Crono answered. "I scarcely know. Truce village I can raise myself, and with speed. Therefore go east, where most of the hardy warriors will come from. I would counsel you seek out Sir Arendain, in the town of Fairmete, two days travel east. He will know where the others have hidden themselves. Together you and the captains will find inciting the people a light matter."

Janus nodded, submitting to the orders given him.

"Come, Schala! With such an errand of haste, we should not tarry!"

Schala stood and followed her brother to the door, girding a sword and scabbard at her waist, aside her dagger. As she stepped out into the chill night air, she turned.

"Good luck, my friend Crono," she said with calm earnestness. "And you too, Serge. I hardly envy your task."

Crono smiled grimly.

"Yet it must be done. Take thought to your own danger instead, Schala. Your deeds will not go unnoticed, nor unanswered. And take care that your brother does not become over zealous in this all."

She took a small glance outside to her brother who paced impatiently in the courtyard, staring aimlessly to the moon.

"Most definitely," she answered.

"And Schala," Crono called out as she made to close the door. "My most grateful thanks for your aid. This is no easy nor safe task I ask of you."

"I merely give myself in the service of that which is right, my friend. No danger shall deter me from taking that path."

And so saying she closed the door and joined her brother outdoors. By the dim light of the moon and stars Serge saw them fade quickly into the night and out of sight.

"Now then, Serge," Crono said once Schala had left, "we have enough trouble of our own ahead. Do not worry yourselves for them. I daresay they can watch over themselves better than we can."

"Yeah," Serge said putting the last of the provisions together into his bag. "I just hope it doesn't actually come to battle for any of us. I may have been a hero once, and I know I've fought a lot of battles, but I don't feel all that eager for a fight. Especially against another human."

Crono looked at him puzzled for a moment, then nodded.

"You've never killed another man, have you?" he said, understanding crossing his mind.

Serge shook his head.

"No, never. I've fought monsters and lot's of other things that are evil and dark. But it was only once or twice that I fought other humans. The Acacia Dragoons in that other world, and a few of the Porre soldiers. And then I always kept myself from killing them."

Crono looked at him uneasily, as if suddenly unsure whether or not he could rely on Serge as he had thought he could.

"Will you be able to, Serge, if you must? Can you kill without hesitation if need be?"

Serge shrugged, not certain about what he himself felt. His heart did not feel bold, and he did not know what to think of the situation he found himself in. All had transpired far too quickly for him to be able to read his own heart in the matter.

"I hope I don't have to. But, if I do...yes, I think I could. To save your life, or mine, I could do that. I've never killed another human, but that doesn't mean that I've never fought them, or killed anything either. It's just been too long since I did this sort of thing last. It still seems not quite real. You, me being here, as if it were too a dream I'm going to wake up from."

Crono laughed grimly.

"Do not we all. I wish near every morning that all of this: Porre and every day of the last fifteen years had been but a dark dream. But time has banished that illusion. Soon, too, will your mind come to hold all that has happened as the truth. Schala trusts you, so I will also."

Before Serge could reply to this, the door to the house was hastily thrown open. Crono leaped up in an instant, his sword in his hands before Serge even saw him reach for it. He held its blade pointed for the throat of the man that had just then disturbed them.

"I assume by this suspicious welcome that I have indeed found you, my Lord Crono," the man said, his voice daunted by the blade held quivering to his throat.

"Resistance?" Crono asked suspiciously. "Is that who you are? I have never seen you before."

The man looked pensively about himself and surveyed the house in which he stood, finally allowing his gaze to rest once more on Crono. Crono for his part did not falter in his keen gaze upon the man.

"Yes," the man finally said. "'May the star of Guardia shine forever' was the last marking line of our group."

Crono nodded, recognizing the sign known to those of the resistance. But he was, as of yet not wholly certain, and did not lower his guard.

"Why have you come then in such haste?"

"I've been sent directly to you, for the situation is now even more dire than you know."

"How so?" Crono asked, an edge of mistrust still in his tone.

"Our spies in the castle have heard talk and rumours. Your wife, the princess, is to be executed on the morrow. As an example to those who would rise up against the Empire."

At these words Serge saw Crono's will falter for a moment and his face grow ashen.

"There is no mistake in this?"

The man shook his head as Crono finally lowered his weapon.

"Not unless our spies have been deceived, and you may well know that seldom have they been wrong in the last decade. And never of a matter of such importance to the survival of our land. It would not have been easy to get such news across its walls. They would only have chanced this had they been certain of its urgency."

Crono nodded slowly then returned to his seat, throwing the blade angrily onto the table at his side.

"Porre cannot know that I have returned," he muttered unto himself, yet loud enough that Serge could hear. "This is meant to stand in guard of her rescue, then."

He looked up at Serge, a knowing glimmer of hope in his voice.

"They know that once she is once more with me we will be more dangerous than we ever were before. They do this now to forestall our banding together again. They think that I will return to find her executed, and thereby be defeated by grief when arms could not prevail."

"It appears so," the messenger said.

Crono looked up, and his countenance was grim to see.

"But they will very surely fail in this. Serge, we leave now."

"Now?" Serge asked, startled.

"Yes, now," Crono replied, standing and girding his scabbard about his waist. "If Marle is to be executed with first light, we have little enough time. Even now we must hurry. It is," he paused in thought, "two hours after sundown. That leaves us nine hours, and the journey to the castle will take us past midnight. I had hoped to plan this out carefully, but I do not have the time anymore."

Serge stood, swinging his pack across his back.

"So how do we get inside?" Serge asked of Crono.

"I pray that I was not wrong in my assumption. I hope that there is a way in through the cathedral."

Serge, unnerved as he was by this rash and unplanned rescue they were embarking upon, felt a thrill of adventure course through him. It reminded him of his own careless, foolhardy, plans when he had been himself a leader of a band.

"And if there isn't?" he asked.

"Then I will fight my way in, or die in doing so. I will not keep myself from harm, not while my beloved Marle is in peril."

He looked over at Serge.

"I would not wish you to follow me if that is the path I choose."

Serge nodded, stepping to the door and throwing it open. The chill night air wandered in filling the room with a fresh air. To Serge it was the breath of adventure. In that moment, for but an instant, he felt undaunted. Looking out into the nighttime, the dark into which the future led, he did not care what was set against him. He shook his head, and found the sudden courage fade from his heart.

He did not know why, but his valour and strength were not as they had been before. Perhaps the seal had not fully lifted from his soul? Whatever the cause, he hoped that it might return to him. For a moment it had, but it had been fleeting.

"Serge?" Crono asked, seeing the aimless stare with which Serge contemplated the night.

Serge nodded, bearing up the Masamune which leaned against the wall by the door.

"Return with this message to our resistance," Crono said in passing the messenger as he left. "Lord Crono has returned. Crono, and with him a company of heroes. The day of our wrath is near at hand. War is coming, and soon shall we be delivered by the sword."

Then he stepped outside, with Serge following hastily in his trail.

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)


	10. The Captive Princess

CHAPTER IX

**THE CAPTIVE PRINCESS

* * *

**

"Too long," Crono muttered as they stole between the trees. "It has been too long. Midnight is long since past, and," he broke off. About them the trees had suddenly thinned. In the near distance they could see a break in their dark ranks.

"At last," Crono said with much relief. "We are almost there."

They raced to the eaves, the fallen leaves rustling beneath their heedless steps. They did not fear soldiers in these pathless areas of the forest. Kneeling as they broke from the trees, they stopped.

Finally Serge saw through the few remaining trees, illumed by the dim silver light of the moon, the silhouette of the fortress. He caught his breath sharply upon seeing it, for it was far mightier than he had thought it would be. About its feet lay the buildings of the Castle City. These were ringed about by a small wall, fortified every few hundred feet by a guarded gate. This, however, was of little concern to the two. The citadel of the town, the mighty fortress of Guardia, sat grim before them, as a shadowed giant resting upon the hillside.

"That's no little castle," Serge said, his words spoken to himself, yet out loud.

"No, it is not," Crono replied distantly, staring upon the many towered walls of the castle, the selfsame fortress he had once called home. "It is the mightiest in the whole of the North."

"Come," Crono said, breaking into a furtive run from the trees. Clinging to the shadowy eaves the two took course about the castle, coming at last to the northwest most wall. Here Crono paused, contemplating the defences from afar. Towering to a height of perhaps two hundred feet the dark walls of stone seemed to be made of smooth glass in the dim starlight.

"There is no way we can climb that, Crono," Serge whispered at his side.

"Wait here," Crono commanded, disregarding Serge's words and ever so carefully creeping into the open grassy plain that lay between him and the castle walls. He looked back for an instant as he disappeared into the darkness.

"When I tell you, come," he said, and was gone.

It seemed well near to an hour to Serge before he saw any sign of Crono again. Perhaps it was indeed that long, but he had no means of marking the passage of time. In the darkness of the forest eaves he heard only the common nighttime sounds of creatures hunting and small beasts scurrying on their furtive errands. The stars danced brightly in their high home in the clear of the night, yet they were strange to Serge. He had taken note of this upon many nights during their journey from the South, but now it finally dawned upon Serge how very much different this land was from his native one. Even the stars, the seemingly unchanging firmament by which paths were set, were changed from that which he had come to know. A great sickle of stars lay above the castle, a constellation he had never before known.

"A herald of doom," he murmured for no reason, looking curiously at these stars.

"What did you say?" Crono asked from the darkness at his side. Serge jumped somewhat; he had thought himself to be alone, and had not been mindful Crono's return.

"Oh, I was just," he began, but Crono shook his head, fixing such a concerned gaze upon him so that Serge himself began to feel unsettled.

"I know what it is you said. Do not say things such as that, most especially not at the start of such a perilous venture. You will curse us with dire prophesies."

"Maybe not meant for us, though," Serge replied, wondering himself about what he had said. But he dispelled his thoughts, taking another furtive glance at the stars crowning the castle. "I don't think that the stars mean much of anything to what we do as it is."

"Perhaps," Crono muttered, his voice still ringing with disquiet. "And yet the lights of heaven have always been a hallowed symbol to man. You see those that shine above us?" he asked, motioning skyward to an area nearly obscured by the overhanging treetops.

"Yeah, but they just seem like more stars," Serge said, unsure as to what pattern was to be seen amongst so many glimmering points of light.

"The Dragon, my friend. The constellation that is sacred to my land. And at its head is the Star of Guardia, Asharyth, the Light that arises in the darkness."

He took pause as he looked upon it.

"It smiles upon us and our fortunes. I have found a way in."

Racing swiftly across the small plain that lay about the castle, even as Crono had done earlier, they came to the base of the walls unseen to the eyes of the guards stalking the battlements. Truly, though, it would have been a strange chance had they been seen. Despite the shimmering moonlight that clearly illumed the fortress, the fields of tall grass were masked in the deep night that lay in the shadow of the castle. Not even a keen eyed night scout could have hoped to see what moved on that field.

"Here?" Serge asked, glancing about as they gained the fortress walls. He leaned heavily against the stone, running his gloved fingers across the grey stone. It was dark, and cold even through his gloves. Furthermore, it seemed that the wall was unbroken and formidable, with no cracks or crevices save those of weathering that had afflicted the stone in the millennia since it had been quarried and piled here as part of a fortress wall.

Crono nodded, crouching to the ground with his eyes intent on the earth. Sweeping away the thick weeds that encircled the foundations of the fortress he looked up at Serge.

"It is small, no doubt," he said, uncovering a crevice in the dirt. "But both of us are small enough to go through, I think."

It was very small, indeed, being no more than Serge's waist across, and overgrown with thick roots and weeds. It would not be a pleasant climb down, regardless of what waited at the bottom. And that was most likely a miserable cavern. Catacombs, Crono had called them, though it was a word he was unfamiliar with. He had a mind to ask Crono what it meant, but as he was about to Crono stood again.

"I will go first," Crono said, ungirding his sword and placing it and his bow into Serge's hands, "You pass me our weapons and follow."

He crouched at the hole and struggled downward. All too quickly for Serge's liking, for he soon found himself alone in the night. Looking up he felt his heart skip at the sight of the monstrous fortress looming high into the night. The moonlight lined the edges of stone, and in this dreamlike glow the fortress seemed more like to the haunt of some curse-bound sorcerer than that of an imperial guard legion. He shook his head, dissembling his stray thoughts.

He took up Crono's bow and sword, passing them carefully into the darkness. He could not see his companion lay hold of them, but they were taken from his grip and so he knew that Crono had made it safely down. He picked up the Masamune, dropping it down in its turn. It appeared, however, that Crono had not looked for this. From far below he heard the shrill clatter of the metal falling upon solid stone. It was fortunate, Serge thought to himself, that this was the Masamune and no lesser sword. Had it been some poorer blade the edge would no doubt have been notched by the fall.

And now, all else having gone, it was Serge's turn. Carefully he slid himself into the hole, very much aware of the dirt, damp and chill, against his arms and legs. The free roots, like tendrils of some loathsome thing, grappled at him in what seemed to be an attempt to keep him from reaching the bottom. But reach it he did, with more discomfort than hardship, and he landed lightly on the stone base.

But as he looked up, shaking his hair of the loose earth, he noticed with some fright that he could not see so much as his own self in the darkness. The stale air chocked his lungs, and in his nostrils a smell of decay burned. Only the sounds of their feet on the dusty stone came to his ears, and that was faint as well.

"Crono?" he whispered, fearing what he might awaken here in such a God forsaken place, at the feet of an ancient castle, "Where are we?"

He could not see Crono, but could hear by the footsteps that his companion stood not more than a few paces away.

"The ancient catacombs: the resting places of the noble dead of my land. This is their entrance."

Forsaken indeed, Serge thought. Not merely a dank cavern, but a tomb as well.

"I don't expect we have any light down here?" he asked gloomily, knowing by virtue of the fact that he still could see nothing that the darkness was complete in this place. No amount of time would allow him to see anything of what lay around. Only a faint and pale ray of moonlight shone into this place from the hole by which they had entered. And this was dim, as if but a memory of light, not affording him more than the sight of the stone floor where it touched.

"No," Crono replied darkly. "I had foolishly not accounted for this in my rush."

Serge could hear Crono shifting about, feeling for the walls.

"Curses," he heard him mutter. "It as dark as death here."

Serge could hear the sweep of a sword being drawn, the dull sound of metal sliding upon wood.

"And my sword cannot give light of its own accord," Crono continued bitterly.

At these words Serge felt thoughts enter his mind. Voices whispered, and he knew them to be the spirits of his own sword which lay on the stone at his feet where it had fallen He had heard them at rare times before, but even so knew them for what they were. He had always thought it a strange thing to be hearing such ghostly voices when surely no one else could.

"We can give you light, if you wish us to," sounded in his mind, in the seeming tongue of a child.

He nodded, mostly to himself, yet somewhat to the voice. Drawing up the hilt from the ground he held it firm in his hands, looking in the darkness for some sign of the blades.

"Yes, that would be helpful, Mune," he whispered in reply, though unsure whether it had been the younger or elder spirit that had spoken the words. In sound of voice they were near twin, save that Masa had scant more strength, and Mune was rather subtle in his tone.

In the darkness a gold-sheen appeared on either blade of his weapon. Softly at first, as if only a mere reflection from some unseen torch, but then waxing to a light of its own strength. Soon the twin ends of his weapon shone as brightly as any torch, but with a golden light more pure than any flame could achieve.

"Ah, I should have remembered the Masamune. That is a wondrous sword indeed," Crono said, returning his own sword swiftly to his scabbard and striding over to Serge. He glanced curiously at the blade as he regirded his own.

"I remember once, long ago, it clove a stone cliff in two without so much as dulling its edge."

Serge looked about the cavern. Other than the base it was mostly of earth, the plant roots reaching out of the roof and walls in every place. But upon one side a great stone wall stood. This was certainly the ancient foundation of the castle. Yet in one place there was a crevice, dark even in the light of the sword.

"Through there?" Serge asked.

Crono nodded.

"I saw this very place once from the other side. Rest assured, through there we will come to the halls of the dead, and thence into the courtyard of the castle."

He pushed on past Serge, attempting to see past into the darkness. But no light met his eyes from beyond, and so he could see nothing.

"You go first Serge."

He paused, seeing a reluctance in Serge's will to go blindly into such a dark place. "Do not worry yourself. There is nothing of any danger in there."

Serge crouched to the hole. The air coming from beyond was grimly stale, and the smell of death come with it. Serge felt his heart skipping in fear at the though of going first into such a place.

"It is no worse than the Isle, that is sure," Crono said. "Here the dead are in peace, and bear no hatred to those that live. They are bones, and nothing more. To be sure it appears dark and foreboding, but I can assure you there are no shades or wraiths lurking inside."

Serge glanced uneasily at Crono, believing him and yet not much comforted. The thought of a chamber filled with withered dead sent a bolt of fear through him. But he would have to endure it as best he could.

Serge crept inside, keeping the shimmer of the Masamune ahead of him. The light, though it thankfully made it possible to see where they went, cast disconcerting shadows about the rough and broken stone walls. His heart danced odd beats, and his breath was harsh and ragged; he half expected to come to face with some wight or other such haunt of tombs. But when Crono came through as well he felt his heart slow once again, to some extent, but the uneasiness did not fully leave him. And now they had come to the catacombs. Through many a chamber and antechamber they went, caverns delved perhaps a millennia ago, long ages before Serge's father's fathers had been born. And in every room it was alike. Crevices in which lay the remains of some great lord, bedecked in finery even as he had been in the day of his burial. Countless jewels of sapphire and ruby adorned the brows, and robes of samite and gilded silk were worn by the bodies, a memory of the days of Guardia's splendour. But though these trapping for the most part had survived the ages, the men themselves had gone the way of all dead. Their once undoubtedly fine faces were no more than bones, their fingers as lifeless as the stone upon which they sat. A strange thing, Serge though, to so adorn the dead with beauty that they have no need of, to make them appear as they did in life. What need did these corpses have of such trappings when scarcely a hair remained to them?

Serge looked about with wonder, but yet some nervousness. These things seemed so near to life in dress he could easily imagine them return to life. He half saw from the shadows in the corners of his eyes the dead turn their hollow eyes upon him, or suddenly sit up like some accursed wight all adorned with jewels and rings. Every stray sound was to him, for a moment, a thing of fear. But as the chambers led into more chambers his fear lessened, and his eyes ceased their darting.

Now coming into further halls they found yet more elaborate barrows, wherein were great tables of carven marble upon which the dead lay amidst countless jewels and riches.

In one such hall he glanced over with a curious eye to a finely arrayed corpse that lay upon a bed of stone, and was dressed in a dark robe with many gilded curves that shimmered in the near moonlike light of the Masamune. At the side lay a strange crested helm and a marvellous sheathed sword, inlaid with true-silver and gold and set with gems of jasper and adamant.

Crono too took note of this man, and stepped over to where he lay. Little remained of the man himself, for here seemed to be one of the most ancient of the dead lords. The skull lacked a jaw, and the fingers were rotted to mere bones. Yet still in one arm it held clutched a great book of edicts, and upon his brow was a jewel like a star in the darkness.

"Who was he?" Serge asked Crono, feeling sickened by this image of death, yet also somewhat fascinated by the dead man. In his own traditions, no dead would ever be buried in such an elaborate way. Indeed, no one was buried in any fashion at all; the funeral pyres consumed the bodies to ashes and those were scattered into the sea. And so it was strange to him to see a tradition so far removed from his own, where the dead were not simply remembered but also kept in stately dress as if they were but sleeping for eternity.

Crono looked with a curious gaze upon the bones, his searching eyes reading the ancient runes carved on the stones about the barrow.

"He was the first King, I think. See the helm by his side? That is no knight's helm, but of the fashion of ancient Rome. So, too, is this sword."

He reached out and caught up the short sword, drawing the blade from the sable sheath.

"A good blade, I think," he whispered, seeing the unblemished silver flickering in the light, "It has sat here untouched for a thousand years, and yet not stained nor decayed."

He smiled somewhat grimly as he placed the sword respectfully back in its place.

"The same may not be said for the one who bore it. Such a great king he was, the father of my land, and yet here he lies: he has been taken by death as all others. Look well Serge. It is a lesson mighty ones such as we should learn: even the greatest will have death take them in the end, and crumble unto dust. But as this sword yet remains, and Guardia yet has some life, deeds will echo forever if well done."

He knelt by the table and brushed the dust away from the edge.

"Here it says his name: Tribune Septimus Aurelius, after known as King, Lord of the West Island of Guardia. And here a verse in the tongue of Rome: Invenire pax in fides, et in pace recte vivere. 'Find peace in faith, and in peace live well'," he read along the stone.

"Even the dead speak words of wisdom," Crono said with a smile, rising again. He bowed shortly before the bones, looking over again to Serge.

"And look here," he continued, drawing his finger across an image cut into the stone at the foot of the table. It was of a knight, fully clad in great armour, girded with a mighty sword and riding a horse. Beyond, at the side of his path, stood two figures. One an old man that held an hour glass aloft. The other a horned demon it seemed, holding an evil lance. But the knight looked forward along his path undaunted by these two, even though the bones of other travellers lay strewn on the ground.

"This is not of this King's time," Crono noted. "Carved here by a later king in honour of his sire. It shows a valiant knight who continues on his path through life, undaunted by either death, who holds the hour glass in taunting, or the devil, the evil one who seeks to waylay those whom he might. It shows by example of this virtuous knight how kings, and all men, should live their lives. Steadfast, undaunted, and in faith."

He looked up to the dark archway that led from the chamber.

"We stray here long enough. Our errand is not to muse on the dead, but to assure that those who yet have days to live may see them through."

They left the chamber and found that this had been the last, perhaps even as it would have been the first to be delved a thousand years ago. Through the last arch that led out of these halls of the dead a great stair led. Up this they swiftly ran, being wary for the loose and broken stones that scattered the upward path. Serge wondered at how long it must be since any living feet trode these steps. Webs were so thick across the way that it seemed that it must be centuries. Thankfully the stair was not long, and they reached the topmost landing without much difficulty. Here stood a grey wooden door, rotten even as much as those buried below. Upon the wood an emblazoned design was still somewhat to be seen, though of what Serge could not tell. The latch was securely fastened, but the architects who had designed the passages had not feared that any should wish to leave. Certainly the dead would not rise and seek to wander free at any rate, and so the only lock was upon this inner side. Crono drew the ancient bolt aside, and the great door swung inward with such a sound that it seemed to be crying in pain.

What met Serge's eyes on the far side was a spectacular sight, even in the darkness. It was a great hall, high ceilinged and built of stone. Through many open windows the light of the moon streamed inward and alighted in ghostly pools of light upon the stone floor. Of its own accord the Masamune softly waned in light, till no gleam touched its edge save that of the moon.

Serge continued to look about in awe. The hall was magnificent. Only one other room so grand had he seen, and that had been in the Fortress of the Dragons. But here was such a place built by the hands of men, and so seemed all the more beautiful to Serge's eyes. The stone was arched in such graceful support of the roof that he could hardly believe them to be rock. And countless pillars lined the hall, carven with scenes from antiquity, holding balconies and levels high above the ground. At the far end of the hall a great round window stood open and bare, and through it shone the silver moon casting its light throughout.

"What sort of place is this?" Serge asked. It seemed to be a meeting hall, for many rows of long benches sat in order along the length of the chamber. Though dust hung heavy in the air, there seemed to be an air of holy beauty about the place.

Crono looked at him in surprise.

"Have you never seen a cathedral?" he asked, glancing about.

Serge shook his head.

"No, never. My people build out of wood, usually. Only the Acacian tribes used with stone when they built Termina on El Nido. But nothing ever like this," he added in awe.

He looked about again, realizing how grand a thing a cathedral was. A graceful construction of stone, built to the glory of God.

"The windows were the greatest beauty, once," Crono said, looking ruefully to the gaping window. "Through great labour they were of coloured glass. The great one faces east, and during the morning mass the sun would shine through in every colour, bespeaking of the glory of Almighty God. But they are gone now. Porre has little regard for things that serve no reason but that of beauty. They care only for things of purpose, things of science."

He closed the door behind him, and Serge saw why the tombs had remained hidden from Porre for so long; to the eye it seemed no more than part of the wall, and even now he could scarce see where it lay.

Crono ran lightly across to the far wall of the cathedral. Serge followed a moment later, slinging the Masamune across his back.

"Where do we go now?" he asked in a low whisper, leaning against the stone wall.

Crono looked over to a great set of doors, emblazoned with holy icons.

"Through the courtyard, to the keep. Not directly, across, certainly," he replied in response to the sudden anxiety that Serge showed at his words. "And not through those doors, unless we wish to be seen. We climb to the widows, and stay in the shadows. There are other ways into the keep that I know of, and many are the ways to the dungeons. Though I fear we will have to come on them from below. Come!"

He led the way to a spiral stair of inlaid with marble. This cathedral, Serge thought, had certainly been a glorious place once. They raced swiftly up its winding steps and terraces, and came to a landing far above the sanctuary. By the many seats that sat facing the main hall Serge could see that it would have been from this height that the choir would sing. But such days were long since gone.

"Here!" Crono called out from a small window at the side. Serge crept to his side and peered out. In the light of the moon he could see the courtyard clearly. Several guards wandered about, but without much fear of intruders. Those on the walls were more alert but, as the two that now looked at them from behind had proven, their watch was pointless.

Crono leaned out the window cautiously and took careful consideration of the stonework that lay about.

"We can make it," he concluded in a whisper to Serge. "It will be hard, but there are enough places to come climb along to reach the bottom."

Serge nodded.

"If we don't get spotted, though."

"Then for the love of God remain as quiet as possible," Crono replied sternly. "If but one of those guards here sees us, we are lost. Not only will we have condemned Marle to certain death, but we will surely be executed as traitors ourselves. Do you think that you can climb this wall?"

Serge nodded, feeling more enlivened now that the clear night air was in his lungs once again. It thrilled him somewhat as well, and for a second time he felt recklessly bold, ready to do anything for the cause of adventure. But as before it passed, and the truth of the situation took hold of him again: they were on a perilous mission, and the men patrolling the battlements would make no hesitation in killing them. He looked out the window, at their downward climb.

"I don't fear heights," he answered. That virtue at least was his, making the obstacle before them not as dangerous as might have been otherwise. Though if truth be told, it was most remarkably far from the ground, and he was not all too certain in saying so.

Crono swung his bow over his shoulder and crept cautiously out upon the eaves of the window. Nimbly he leaped down to a landing that lay several metres below. Serge followed swiftly, deftly climbing out with as much stealth as he could muster. Even with his sword slung weightily across his back he was nimble and sure footed. As Crono clambered down a buttress that led down some ways, Serge dropped himself onto the landing Crono had just left. His feet made hardly a sound. Finding sure footing on the cracks and spaces in the buttress he followed the path Crono had taken. Gripping his fingers tightly about the smooth limestone, he clambered from stone to stone as they slowly made their way earthward. More than once they found themselves without any way to go, and at needs retraced their climb a ways. But they were the favoured of fate, it seemed; they reached the courtyard without arousing the guard.

Even so it had been a hard climb, Serge thought to himself as he crouched gasping in breaths. And upon looking up from the ground he realized that it had been more than a little due to nothing but chance that they had reached the bottom in safety. From the yard the great stone walls were sheer and seemed unscaleable; but perhaps this illusion had served them well, for they were now inside the very castle of their enemies, and were still unseen.

But the yard was not a safe place, they both knew, and every step they took deeper into the castle was a leap more into danger. If the soldiers were alerted now, it was certain death; not the power of a dozen sorcerers could hope to prevail against a garrison of four hundred armed troops. And so they made their way along the walls with all due haste and secrecy, ever with a watchful glance to the battlements. Ahead, at the far end of the wide courtyard, rose the great keep. It alone would in most lands have been thought to be a mighty fortress, for it was many towered and its gate was wrought of oak and steel. Near unassailable by any force of might; yet Crono and Serge were not coming with force, but with guile. And no fortress can fully defend against the subtle cunning of a sharp and determined mind that seeks entrance by stealth.

So it was that they shunned the great door, knowing well that to come to it would mean certain failure. Rather they clung to the shadows like some light forlorn creatures of the night, taking wary glances about the yard and to the silent battlements. Swiftly they came to the corner where the keep met the outer wall, and the shadows were deepest. Here, in the night, Serge could dimly see the shape of a door. Crono needlessly nodded towards it, proclaiming it their entrance.

"Porre wouldn't leave it unlocked, would they?" Serge asked coming up behind Crono.

With a click Crono moved the latch to the side.

"Certainly not," he said with a smile. "But this fortress is one thousand years old, and there are many mysteries about this castle they do not yet know. This door will always open at the bidding of the true king."

He nodded in the direction of the great doors.

"And a side door is ever so much better than the main gate," Crono whispered, pushing it open. "Most especially when you are assured to be welcomed with death."

They slunk inside, being cautious lest an enemy happened to be there. But the room inside, a cavernous hall filled with old barrels and store, was empty of men.

"This is a huge castle," Serge said when the door was shut safely behind them. "Who built it? I thought only the ancient Dragons could build like this."

Crono shook his head.

"Then you are mistaken, for this is without doubt the work of men. A thousand years ago, a commander of illustrious Rome led five legions West across the sea, and founded Guardia. He followed the new light of Christianity, and was disdainful of the conquest his emperor bade him embark upon. Persecuted for his belief, he fled with his faithful legions from the lands of Rome. You saw him yourself, in the tombs. This castle is a last testament to his dream, built with Roman skill. But if you think this is a grand thing, you have seen nothing."

Crono looked keenly about the room, searching for the far door; the Masamune had begun to shine once again.

"More than this?" Serge asked, wondering at what could possibly be grander than this fortress. "I find that hard to believe."

"There was once a land. One such as the world will never see again, thought it should last for a thousand, thousand centuries to come. I saw it once: Zeal the Beautiful, the greatest kingdom of men that shall ever be."

Serge nodded, understanding. He had heard Schala's tales, certainly. But her own stories were of a land she had known in her childhood, and had grown up in. Only later in her youth had it been destroyed, and she was forced to live in a world that could only ever be a shadow of what the old had been. But for Crono, born in a time that beside Zeal was as a fleck of dust next to gold, it must have been as if visiting paradise itself.

Perhaps some day Serge would hear Crono tell of it, and hear how it appeared to one whose eyes were unused to its splendour. But now was not the time. In the burning light of the Masamune they made their way silently through the chamber and out the far door.

Here was a long hall, thin and dark. From the walls a few torches flickered, but so far between that great lengths of the hall remained black in shadow. And from far rooms the sound of voices and laughter could be heard, reminding Serge that they were ever so near to danger.

"This way," Crono muttered, nodding to the right. "If we go left we would come to the guard rooms and barracks."

"And to the right the dungeons?" Serge added with a question. Crono nodded.

"I don't know which sounds better," Serge said, "Guards, or a dark jail."

"I counsel the jails," Crono answered, taking up a quick but light footed walk along the hall.

They reached the end of the hall soon enough, it being shorter than Serge had thought. At the far end the passage descended downward along a steep set of crumbling stairs. The torches that lined the walls were even fewer here, and it seemed that little thought was put into lighting them. But at least there was light enough to see their path, and the Masamune did not shine. Down they trode, cautious for broken stone, in a trek that seemed to be interminable. How far they descended, Serge could not tell. Certainly they were deeper than the catacombs, perhaps in a delving deeper than the foundations themselves. For when at last they stepped from the stair, the hall into which they came was no more than a simple tunnel in decay; the stonework was broken here and there, and dirt and roots struggled their way through. Two lone torches illumed the hall, and the light they gave was dim and ever on the verge of waning into blackness.

And here it was that they saw the first of the castle guards. A young dark haired man dressed in the simple and pristine blue and black attire of a sentry, and armed with a sheathed sabre and musket. His back was towards them as they came upon him, but he turned, hearing their footsteps behind.

Seeing the two upon him the guard stepped back in alarm, his hand grasping for his sword. But in his bewilderment he could not draw it in time; Crono had swept an arrow out, and held the bow ready to fire. He did not make for the deathstroke, however, but rather spoke.

"Ah, yes," Crono said. "This is a timely meeting. So then, guard, what do you say? Death is at your throat, but I will spare you that fate for now if you tell me where the Princess is being kept captive."

The soldier returned Crono's gaze, albeit with a startled fear in his eyes. But in Crono's face burned a keen anger. The bow quivered in his hands as he held the string taut in his fingers, poised and ready to fire the arrow which he now aimed at his enemy's heart. The Porre soldier knew that to try for either of his own weapons, which sat fastened to his side, was certain death. He stood frozen, daunted by the fiery eyes of his enemy.

Crono glared, his eyes darkening.

"Where is she being held?" he snarled, the words coming viciously from him in echo of his mind.

The soldier opened his mouth as if to answer. For a moment it seemed that the vehement tongue in which Crono spoke had achieved its end. But, seemingly weighing fear against his allegiance to Porre, the man resolutely closed it again, and shook his head.

"Once more, where is she?!" Crono demanded with a certain mencace. It seemed as if a sharp wind had begun to sweep through the passage, a wind that chilled deeper than the skin. The torches wavered, and threatened to die.

"I can't say," the soldier stammered, unwilling to fail in his duty, but much afraid of the fell warrior that stared upon him with such dark eyes.

Crono scowled, seeing well the division in the soldier's heart. He did not have time to bandy words.

"Yes, yes you can. One last time I charge you, or you will most certainly die. Where is the Princess Nadia!"

But now it was to no avail. The soldier had regained what courage was his. And he was young and unused to things of war; he thought, to his great misjudgment, that his enemy would not strike him down. His bright eyes shining in the dark, he stood tall and proud, and most foolishly brave.

"You can't kill me. If you kill me, I can't tell you anything."

Crono glanced at Serge, such a look on his face that even Serge shuddered to see it.

"Yet better than alive. I gave him his chance."

The bow shuddered in Crono's hand and the arrow whistled shrilly through the air. At such range the soldier couldn't move aside and, indeed, did not even see his doom approach. The arrow rove him through the heart, and he dropped to the ground without a cry, his lifeblood staining his blue raiment red where the arrow had pierced him.

Serge stared at the dead man in surprise. He had not realized quite how ruthless Crono could be when the need drove him to it. Crono, for his part, did not even look at the body as he passed. He waved for Serge to follow him and advanced down the hallway, cautiously fitting another arrow to his bow. Serge did as Crono bade, glancing at the body of the young soldier with a sick heart. This guard was no different than he; a man barely out of boyhood, perhaps zealous to make those he knew proud of him. But a single shaft of wood had ended it. Crono had done it with such unfeeling coldness, as if to take such a life was a little matter, and that didn't sit well with Serge's mind. Not lightly, at the least. Crono wasn't the same person now that he had known before, the bright eyed warrior, young of heart, that he had spoken with during their sea crossing. He was changed, and his mood with him. He was fell now, dark and deadly when angered, and a weight of responsibility had descended upon him. His eyes showed this much: he was not somebody to be crossed.

"Crono, you didn't have to do that you know," Serge muttered.

Crono slowly turned to face Serge.

"Yes, perhaps," he whispered as if repenting of the arrow he had fired. "But I'm in haste, and I won't brook any delays. You heard yourself what is said: Marle is to be executed at dawn. And I could not simply let him go to tell of us, that is certain."

True enough, but it did little to allay Serge's worry over his friend's mood. Such vehemence was rarely for the best.

Crono pointed to a small door recessed in the shadows at the side of the hallway.

"Come, this is the door to the passages."

He slung his bow over his shoulder and reached for the latch.

"Pray it's unlocked," he added.

He stepped up to the door, and turning the handle gave a shove. The door creaked open on a pair of ancient hinges, opening upon a very dark and dismal looking passage of stone.

"Somewhat dark," Crono muttered. "Leave the Masamune on your back; if you carry it will burden you if it comes to a race, which might well be. Serge, grab a torch."

Serge nodded, and removed a burning torch from a place on the wall.

"Crono?"

"Yes, what is it Serge?" he asked, stepping into the shadowed passage.

"What do we do now? We have no clue where Marle is being held."

Crono shook his head.

"I know. I know. But there are other ways. We'll try for the execution chamber. We can wait there for her to arrive. Then we'll see who is put to death," he added grimly. "Come."

He led the way into the dark passage, but let Serge pass as it was he who held the torch aloft in his hand.

They continued on in stealth, speaking little for, though the tunnels they crept through were seldom used be Porre soldiers, they knew that seldom was hardly never. And it took but one soldier to raise the entire fortress against them.

The stone walls flickered yellow in the burning light of the torch that Serge carried. These parts of the castle were old, nearly as ancient as the catacombs, built before the magnificent spires that rose on the outside were raised. And with every step he had to watch his footing, being careful not to stumble on loose flagstones.

"Hey Crono!" Serge whispered, the dusty air choking his lungs, "You sure that we are going the right way?"

Crono didn't turn, but continued to walk, whispering in response.

"Yes, yes. This is the right way. It's the long way, no doubt. But we are nearing the dungeons..."

"Positive?" Serge asked, not quite as sure as Crono.

"Without a doubt. See ahead?" he asked.

In the dim amber torchlight that flickered faintly on the walls and tunnel ahead Serge could just see the faint outline of a door.

"That door," Crono continued, "leads to the lowest prisoner cells. I myself was once locked in here myself, near on twenty years ago."

Serge almost laughed, but caught himself.

"You? Before you were prince, I'm sure."

"Yes, of course. The charge was, if I remember it correctly, kidnapping the princess."

He chuckled softly.

"Strange how fate twists such things in the end, is it not?"

They reached the door. A massive oak and steel monstrosity that Serge sincerely hoped was unlocked. Its blackened metal seemed almost indestructible.

"So what happened to you?"

"A tale for another time, my friend. We are in a hurry. Sufficed to say I escaped, and..."

He gave a sturdy push to the door but, to Serge's dismay, it did not move.

"Eternal curses, it _is_ locked." Crono muttered.

"Any other ways?" Serge questioned quietly.

Crono shook his head.

"Not unless you want to march straight across the throne room. That would be somewhat conspicuous, I believe..."

He knelt, examining the door closely.

"The door is meant to keep prisoners in. See the hinges? They're on this side."

Serge reached for them to try to loosen them, but Crono laid hold of his arm, shaking his head.

"But then again, this door has not been used for decades, in all likelihood. There is no way you are going to pull that bolt out. We have only one thing we can do."

Serge frowned, beginning to fear where Crono was leading.

Crono meanwhile examined the door further. Then he stood, and closed his eyes in thought.

"Very well then. It is as I feared. We cannot open this door of our own strength, and the bolts would take far too long to draw out. We must blast the doors."

"What?!" Serge whispered urgently, glancing at Crono and hoping that it was some ill timed joke. It was not. This was not what he had wanted to hear.

"Won't that bring the whole castle down upon us?" he asked with rising concern. Here, after being so furtively silent and ever warning against raising the castle, Crono was counselling them to do a rash thing.

Crono chuckled, looking about at the stone walls that enclosed them.

"Yes, it likely will. Or at least all the prison guards in this area. The mazes of halls will slow them, but not for long. That is why we must make haste. I think I remember the way to the execution chambers, though it was some fifteen years ago when I last saw them. But if we can gain them without being spotted, they will never think to look for us there. Then we wait. Are you ready?"

Serge nodded. He certainly wasn't, but knew that there would be no advantage in waiting.

Crono stepped back a pace. Closing his eyes he put his outstretched fingers on the door. Even from below their closed lids, Serge could see Crono's eyes burned with light. And at that instant the door, in a flash of light and a crack of thunder, shuddered and flew backward in pieces with a deafening crash of splintering wood and twisting metal.

Serge rubbed his ears, attempting to stop the ringing.

"Aha!" Crono laughed. "Now what stands in our way? Follow me!"

Serge, still gripping the burning torch tightly, took off in a sprint following Crono. Indeed it appeared as if Crono knew these dungeons quite well. He wove this way and that, through hallways and doorways, up stairs and over walkways that spanned deep pits that seemed bottomless. These lower prisons seemed as a castle themselves, and Serge wondered if they were not the remains of an older fortress yet, put to a different use when a newer had been built above. He could not imagine so grand a dungeon would be needed by any castle.

Not a guard did they see in these deep parts of the jails, yet from other halls and passages above he could now hear the heavy footfalls of soldiers drawing ever nearer, echoing along the stone labyrinths.

"This way, Serge!" Crono gasped, shortly for lack of breath, and took a turn up a dark set of spiral stairs. Serge followed, his legs beginning to weary, yet spurred ever on by the sound of the soldiers close behind.

At the top of the stairs, Serge was ready to collapse. Indeed Crono too looked overtaxed by their flight, nearly faltering, yet knew that his pursuers were nearly upon them, and did not stop.

He whispered to Serge with all the breath he could spare.

"We are almost there. Around this turn are the chief execution chambers..."

They rounded the corner, but started in alarm. Two Porre soldiers faced them, muskets drawn and aimed at them. Acting faster than he could think Serge leaped to the ground as the pair of weapons fired in unison, the blast of noise deafening his ears. He felt the bullets streak to either side of him and glance off the wall behind him with a crack of splintering stone.

Their guns now fired and useless the guards threw them aside and drew their sabres. Yet such slender weapons, though swift and deadly in their own right, are no match for such a sword as was now placed against them, for Crono was upon them in a heartbeat, the curved blade of his sword sweeping swiftly from its scabbard. With a snap of splitting steel Crono shore one of the blades off clean at the guard, and drove the Rainbow through the man's chest before the surprised guard could even contemplate his death. Seeing this the other guard turned to run, but was felled as the Rainbow struck him in the back, flying from Crono's hand as a lance.

As Crono retrieved his bloodied sword, Serge wearily stumbled to his feet from where he had fallen. He had expected to have aided Crono in the fight, but his friend had proved all too swift and efficient. Truly here was a master warrior, Serge thought grimly, seeing for the first in true battle both the peerless skill in swordplay and grim calm that Crono bore. But still he was half glad that it had been Crono, and not he, that had to killed the men.

"Serge, are you hit?" Crono asked urgently, seeing Serge's difficulty in rising.

Serge shook his head.

"Kind of a close call, but no. Just, exhausted..."

"Well, don't give up yet, for this is only beginning. Here, this is the door to the chamber," Crono said, pointing to an iron barred door that was nearly hidden in a dark recess in the wall.

Behind them, from the bottom of the stairwell, Serge heard the yells of the guards as they strove to find the two.

"Quickly, Serge!" Crono whispered, pushing the door open on rusted hinges and leaping into the dark interior. Serge followed an instant later, shutting the door even as the guards came upon the hallway. From the sightless interior of the grim chamber of death, the two could hear the angry shouts of the guards as they found their slain comrades.

"How did they get in without us seeing? There wasn't any alert from the walls," one asked, a very noticeable tone of fear in his voice.

"I don't care," another responded with more surety, who was likely the commander of the troop, "They won't interfere with the execution."

"Do you think that's why they've come? To rescue that princess?" another voice responded.

There was no reply from the other man at first, and it seemed to Serge that he paced around outside the door.

"Whatever they may want," the commander finally said, "all stations are on alert. They can't go anywhere without being spotted."

Serge expected the others to reply to this. Instead the sound of more footsteps in the hall echoed into the pitch room.

"Serge!" Crono whispered. "To the back of the chamber, and make haste!"

Trusting to luck that some sharp instrument of death would not find him, he crept cautiously toward the back of the room.

The room even smelled of death, Serge though with a shiver. The stench of dry blood was thick in the air. It sickened him to even imagine what horrible mechanical contrivances sat about them, existing for the sole purpose of killing prisoners.

Even as they gained the far wall the iron door swung open, the ancient hinges straining once with age. The sudden light, dim though it was, caused Serge a momentary blindness. But as his vision cleared, he saw that Crono had been correct in this as in all else.

A dozen men had walked into the room. Thankfully, Serge saw, their hiding place was amidst the shadows and well out of sight of those who had just entered. Four of these were guards, he noted as they marched in. Between them they led in a figure, whom he assumed was the princess Marle. He stole a glance over at Crono. A grim look of wrath burned in his face and eyes, and he soundlessly muttered curses at his enemies now before them. But as of yet he made no movement nor sound, and Serge likewise remained as a shadow awaiting to spring.

Now in the light, Serge could see them better. Though he had never seen her before, he could be sure the one they had brought in was the princess. And though her fair regal features were marred by countless welts and cuts, and for clothes she bore only the grey raiment of a prisoner, her beauty was still great. Her golden hair hung in disarray to her shoulders; no soil could mar its shimmering glow in the torchlight. And though she was now on the very threshold of death, her eyes were every bit as fiery as Crono's own. The dark hatred they bore for those who held her captive was only outmatched by her husband's. As the men brought her forward to the guillotine she gave no struggle, but bore herself proudly as she sat down upon its table.

One of the men, a bearded old official who appeared to be a magistrate or judge of a sort, was arrayed in long black gowns traced in gold emboss and embroidered red velvet, and now began to speak:

"Princess Nadia, you have been found by trial and law guilty of the crime of treason. In accordance with our laws, your full sentence shall now be carried out. In reverence to our ancient edicts, you may speak before you are put to death. Do you wish to do so?"

For an instant Serge thought she would not speak. Her mouth remained resolutely closed, her fiery eyes darting vicious glances about at her captors. Then, on a sudden, either by chance or by some unseen bond, her eyes alighted on the very place where Crono lay hidden. But she let her gaze fall for only a brief moment, and she lifted her eyes once more to those who stood before her.

"Yes," she said boldly, in a voice of surpassing beauty.

The magistrate nodded for her to continue.

"Twenty years ago, when I was but a young maiden, a strange thing occurred. At the great fair celebrating the one thousandth year of this land of Guardia, I chanced upon someone. By fate, maybe, I ran into a young boy who named himself Crono. He was brave, fearless, and most assuredly hot headed."

As she said this, Serge could almost imagine he heard Crono stifle a chuckle.

"But in time he would become my defender who never abandoned me, though at times even death seemed assured. Through harrowing dangers I went, and he was always there, by my side."

Now rising from the table on which she sat, she began to pace as much as her bindings would allow. The guards made no effort to stop her in this, perhaps amazed at her sudden strength.

"I married this boy. At our wedding he swore to me that no danger would keep us apart, and that whatever would follow, he would be at my side."

"He isn't here now, princess," one of the guards said with a cruel laugh, plainly tiring of the speech.

"Let me finish!" she replied, cowing the man into silence. "We have both since grown, but never have I doubted that promise he made to me, years ago."

She paused slowly, and fixed a such a vicious smile upon the magistrate that he took a step backward.

"And he," she said, raising her voice to a mocking cry, "who has been the death of so many of your people shall now be your doom as well!"

And even as these last words escaped her lips, Serge knew that their moment was upon them. Behind him he heard the sound of a sword hastily drawn. Even as he leapt from his hiding place, Crono sprung from his own. Before any of the guards could even lay hold of their weapons the Rainbow flashed in the air between Marle and the guards, and with death-choked cries two fell at once with cut throats. As another bore up his musket, locking the flint to fire, the Rainbow swept a deadly edge across his chest, and he too fell with death-enshrouded eyes. The fourth guard, seeing his comrades felled in but a moment by what seemed to his eyes a wraith of shadows, broke for the door. Yet even as he came to the threshold a lance of lightning echoed like a gunshot in the dim-lit room. For a moment it was as daylight, and when it passed the last of the guards fell lifeless at the threshold to the door.

This Serge all watched with supreme wonder for, to his mind, no more than seconds had passed, and already Crono had killed all of the guards. As of yet Serge had yet to make a stroke of his own, and stood unsure in the darkness. In some corner of his heart he felt loath to strike down another human, regardless of how just his cause was, even as Crono had so rightly guessed. Before his eyes he saw the chief executioner, black hooded and faceless, fall with a sundered heart even as he reached for a sword. Ruthlessly Crono cut down all those in the chamber, armed or not. The magistrate, seeing all of those of his company fall to the blade dancing firelike in the dim light, stepped back a few paces in fear, drawing near to where Serge stood.

Then Serge saw him reach beneath his robes. In sudden bold defiance of Crono's skilful slaughter he brought out a musket even as Crono turned his back to him to cut down another soldier, thinking the man weaponless and harmless. The magistrate levelled the weapon for Marle, and with a cruel smile pulled the trigger. Yet then, if but for a moment, Serge cast all of his doubts aside. The Masamune flashed in his hands, and the shot which should have taken Marle's life recoiled harmlessly off the wall as the magistrate fell with a bloodied face to a swift sweep of the Serge's sword.

Crono turned about in alarm upon hearing the weapon fire, for a fleeting moment fearing that it had struck Marle. But upon seeing Serge, blood edged sword in hand, he smiled.

"Many thanks," he breathed hoarsely, sweeping his sword about to parry a heavy blow that the final man dealt him.

But it was a hopeless act for the soldier to stand up to one so grim and fell as Crono was now. In two strokes Crono had disarmed and slain his foe.

Crono now took thought to Marle, who had all the while stood still, being yet bound.

"Crono," she said as he flung his bloodied sword back into its scabbard. "At last. You're somewhat late in coming."

"Have I done anything but at the brink of doom?" he asked with a smile as he swept out a knife and cut her bindings.

She paused before replying, stumbling as she stood from where she had sat.

"No, not that I can remember," she muttered as he helped her to her feet.

"Are you alright?" he asked with grave concern, seeing her bruised and battered features.

"As fine as ever I was," she said with a small smile. "We've both taken worse injury."

She looked about the room. A dozen men lay dead about her feet, the very same who had sought to end her life but minutes earlier.

"Ah, you've avenged me harshly, Crono," she whispered.

"For you, I would kill a thousand," Crono replied. "Can you stand?"

She winced in obvious pain, but her will had the mastery of her body, and she stood slowly of her own strength.

"Can you mend yourself?" he asked, his concern not lessening.

She shook her head wearily.

"No, I don't think so. Not strength for that," she replied, her voice descending to a murmur.

She stepped forward a pace, but faltered in a faint. Crono caught her as she dropped, easing her to the ground.

"What have they done to you?" he muttered, his eyes flashing. "Serge?"

Serge stepped over, kneeling at Crono's side.

"Is she alright?" he asked. He could see she was breathing, though lightly. In the dim light of the half open door he could see that her face was marred by many wounds. All told she looked terrible.

"Porre did that to her?" Serge said, aghast at such treatment, even of a prisoner.

"Their cruelty is only outmatched by their power, Serge," Crono replied, glancing up quickly.

"Marle! Awake!" Crono whispered, tenderly running his hand across her forehead.

Her eyes darted open, and she sat up so swiftly that Serge started.

"Curses," she snarled. "I've been too weak."

She leaped to her feet, steadying herself on Crono's shoulders.

"What are things come to?" she asked with urgency. "What has happened while I've been gone?"

Crono shook his head, standing and placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Not now, Marle. Later. I'll tell you everything when we escape. And we must be careful; you are injured."

She glanced about herself, her eyes darting for a moment on Serge who knelt still on the ground, contemplating the two.

"Who is this?"

"Serge of El Nido, a hero no less than we," Crono answered.

"El Nido?" she wondered, taking a closer look. "Has the West risen up as well?"

"Later, Marle," Crono admonished. "But take heart, beloved. The days we have long hoped for are coming."

She nodded, understanding their need for flight. Her usually keen wits had been dulled somewhat by her injuries, and a feverish state was upon her mind. She shook her head, but it was unavailing in clearing her thoughts.

"You need rest," Crono answered. "We must be slow in our escape," he said, turning to Serge, "I cannot risk her further injury."

"Do not be concerned too much about me," Marle said, her eyes for a moment clearing somewhat. "Listen!"

The castle was raised. A distant bell tolled, its ringing coming to their ears even through the rocks of the deep prison. Their rescue had gone mostly unnoticed too long, and their fortunes had begun to turn even as they achieved their end.

"Quickly now, we cannot wait for another moment!" she said urgently, her voice hoarse. Crono looked at her dismayed, seeing well that her injuries pained her greatly, and she was nearly in a swoon again. He stepped forward to contest that it would be better for her if they would slowly slip into the shadows and eventually make for their secret entrance. But she silenced his unspoken words with a wave of her hand.

"Listen!" she breathed. "The guards will be here soon. Speed is our only chance. And I charge you as my husband to listen to me and trust me; I can make it this far at least."

"Marle," Crono began, distressed at her adamant will that seemed to fully disregard her own well-being.

"Trust me!" she repeated, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Crono saw it was moot to argue. Her will was unyielding, and nothing he could say, he knew, would sway her counsel when she had decided on something.

He nodded to Serge, who understood. Her commands they would have to abide by, for it seemed that she was more headstrong than he had come to know even of Leena.

The three crept from the room, Crono muttering curses on the chamber as they left.

"Quickly, quickly!" Marle urged, her head darting from side to side in apprehension of the sound of approaching soldiers.

They ran. With all the strength they had they raced down the steps, and through the forsaken halls, being glad to be leaving rather than coming. Perhaps had Marle not been so weary and injured their flight would have been swifter but, as it was, they were quick. They passed the shattered door. They ran down the halls and up the long flight of stone stairs, coming to the last hall that led to the courtyard.

But here, they found, their luck in evading their pursuers had failed them. Not all had taken up the chase into the prisons, and some at least it seemed had guessed whereby their attackers might attempt to escape. At the far end of the hall stood two soldiers, steel blades drawn.

"Halt, traitors!" one cried, though he stepped back a few paces as he said it, his voice faltering. It was obvious that they had not reckoned with such foes as the three were. Crono once again drew his sword, its shimmering blade still besmirched with blood. But he was not the first to strike, nor yet the second. Serge, having killed once, and knowing what need was upon them now, leaped for the first man. The soldier had the first blow, but only succeeded in striking the haft of the Masamune. With a swift turn of one blade Serge cut him across his throat, and he fell to the ground with faltering cry. As for the second soldier, it had seemed to Serge that it fell upon Crono to fight him. But quicker even than he was Marle, wounded as she was. The silver blade swept through the air, but swifter than a chased hare that escapes the hunter she stepped aside, the sword coming within a hairs breadth of her neck. And the soldier had certainly not judged that an unarmed woman could so deftly avoid his stroke. It was a grave mistake. Her hand struck out for his face, causing the man to stumble, his sword slipping from his forgotten grip. Out of his weakening fingers she snatched it, and drove it through him.

Crono ran up at once, ill tempered over her actions.

"You should not strain yourself!" he hissed between his teeth. "If you were to die, I could not outlive you by a day. I would never forgive myself over your death."

Her eyes glanced fire at him, but she also saw that it was truly out of love that he said this, and nothing else. And so she relented.

"Very well," she murmured. "But I can't just stand by and watch you fight without doing anything."

"Let us hope there is no more fighting for any of us," Crono said, crossing the store chamber, and looking anxiously out the far door. The expanse of courtyard that he could see, the part that led along the wall to the cathedral, was devoid of soldiers.

"Blessed fortune!" Marle said, creeping to the door. "It looks like they're all looking for us in the wrong place."

Crono still glanced furtively about, taking a few testing steps into the yard.

"The fools," he said, a smile coming to his face. "They hear the alarm and race to the dungeons!"

He took a glance up the walls, his eyes squinting in the darkness.

"Even the battlements here are deserted. It is safe."

Trusting to his sight that he had not mistakenly thought the yard safe, they sprinted across as swiftly but quietly as they could. There were no eyes watching them now, but that did not mean that there might not be a sudden guard at any moment.

Coming to the shadows under the great buttresses of the cathedral Crono once again looked about with fearful eyes. Certainly there must be guards now, he thought. But Porre had made a dire mistake, it seemed, and recalled most of their soldiers to the keep.

"Are we going yet, Crono?" Marle asked curiously, following his eyes from deserted corner to forsaken wall.

"This cannot be," Crono muttered worriedly. "Have we ever known Porre to be this foolish?"

Marle looked at him uncertainly.

"Marle, have we ever?" he repeated. "This is a trap. I dare say that there are soldiers watching, only we cannot see them. We were the fools to try this far across to the cathedral. But we have been fortunate fools, I think. Yet it would not last a second time."

"Are you sure?" Serge asked, glancing now nervously to the dark corners. Were there truly soldiers there waiting for them to reveal themselves?

"Certainly. The alarms are silenced. No bells toll. The commanders of our enemies are clever. I half think this is the doing of that friend of yours Norris. Very like to that trap that he devised, is it not Marle?"

Marle nodded grimly.

"When all seemed like it was safe, it wasn't. Just an escape that led into a trap," she said, following with a line of curses. She then paused, looking up at Serge with a strange eye.

"He is a friend of Norris?" she asked, suspicion rising in her voice.

"Yes, once," Crono answered urgently. "But I assure you he is to be trusted. Now is not the time for this," he added. "We have but come half way. Now we must make good our escape."

Crono looked up at the high pinnacles of the keep, glaring with a menacing eye upon the high roof of a tower.

"And now we but need draw their eyes away, if only for a minute," he said grimly.

He closed his eyes, circling his hands about each other. In his palms a sphere of lightning began to play, arcing in lambent tendrils along his arms.

His eyes shot open.

He gathered the sorcery to one palm and stretched the hand towards the tower. The sphere, seeming as a flickering star, hurtled through the air. With a thunderous roar it struck the wooden roof of the tower. A hole shattered open and the timbers burst into roaring flames. All about, from the yard and battlements, fresh cries of alarm rose up. In the fear of fire the escaping traitors were all but forgotten, and none noticed the three shadows slip through the great doors into the cathedral. When at last all fear of fire was gone the commanders cursed with dismay. Their intruders had come and gone, leaving only a trail of death and ruin, and a failed execution. What this now meant, few fully understood. Only a few dared whisper that dark fear: war was coming.

For indeed things were occurring all according to Crono's will. They had defied chance and an empire. Their daring plan had succeeded, and all their ways were turning out well. Fate was on their side, and the future looked the better now that the princess was with them. For now Marle was rescued, snatched from the jaws of death as they snapped shut upon her, and rebellion could be planned.

* * *

**ON THE HISTORY OF GUARDIA**

The date of the founding of Guardia is traditionally set to the year 0, to coincide with the birth of Christ. In truth, however, the Tribune Septimus Aurelius did not embark on his westward sail until the reign of the Emperor Caligula, in the year 40AD. The reason for this misrepresentation is that the people of early Guardia, being predominantly Christian, considered their land to be one of refuge, or guard, for believers, hence its name. Furthermore they held true Guardia as being the fellowship of believers, not the worldly land. It seemed only fitting, therefore, to set the establishing year to that of the birth of their High Lord, signifying that Guardia along with Christendom had been truly born in the year of their Savior's birth. Over the centuries this antique sign of reverence was all but forgotten, and it was generally, though mistakenly, assumed by most that the land of Guardia had been in existence since the year 0.

This assumption that Guardia is a Christian land is based on the years being measured according to BC and AD, standing respectively for Before Christ and Anno Domini. The second bears the Latin meaning of: "In the year of our Lord." It is unlikely that the years would be measured in such a way had not Guardia been for at least some years a largely Christian land.

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)


	11. Winds of Rebellion

CHAPTER X

**WINDS OF REBELLION

* * *

**

The morning cock crowed as they came again to Truce, while the sun burned red in the Eastern sky. Wearily tramping across the deserted squares and streets they came swiftly to the house. With worry and much caring the peasants took them in again, most especially Marle. For the people of the land had always taken a special liking to their Princess.

"Before the Fall," Crono explained to Serge as the peasants laid Marle to rest on a bed, "She would always visit in amongst her people. She was as gracious a princess as has ever been, always acting on behalf of them before her father."

He sat down with a weary sigh on the floor, resting his back to a wall.

"Marle isn't even her true name, for that matter. Her birth name is Princess Nadia Blancheflor; but she shunned it, casting it aside when amongst her people. She wished for no more than to be as one of them, to be nothing but a common girl with a simple life. What fate has in store for us!"

He laughed, looking over at her.

"Yes, she wished to be a common girl and, in the end, become greater than any princess ever was."

"Isn't that what happened to us all?" Serge replied. "To all us that people call heroes?"

"Maybe," Crono said. "Some days I wonder what other life awaited me had I never set out on my journeys. Would I be happier?"

He shook his head with a thought on his lips.

"No, this is what I was born for and what I have lived for. My heart would not be at rest had I led the life I began."

"Well, that's where you and I are different, I guess," Serge said, dropping to the floor as well. His legs ached fiercely, and he hoped that he would not have to do such a run many more times in the near future.

"I," he continued, "I still don't care much for what I was destined to do."

Crono looked at him with some disbelief.

"You don't feel pride over what you did? You destroyed the shadow of Lavos! That was a greater thing than near any other has ever done!"

"A little, maybe," Serge admitted. "But what do I need heroics for? I value peace."

"Peace? A fair dream, my friend. A naive dream, and nothing but a dream, unless some are willing to fight and sacrifice themselves to attain it for others. This is what we heroes are. The ones who throw ourselves into battle and war, willingly shatter our own lives so that others may rest with unworried hearts."

"We are the cursed ones, then," Serge said. "If I had my choice, just give me my village, my fishing boat, and someone to care for forever. Not that I don't like the thrill of adventure, but I know where my heart really lies. And it's in peace."

"Strange," Crono answered with a smile. "You were offered all of that. Schala, she told you as much that night when we all first met. You were given that very choice, and you chose to follow me instead. You gave up what you wished, and rather aided me. Only now do I see how great a thing that was."

He paused for a moment, looking to where Marle was resting, safe from harm.

"You have my eternal thanks."

"Crono?" Marle called weakly. He was at her side quickly, holding her hand tenderly.

She smiled at him.

"As I said, I've never doubted what you promised me. But now you have to tell me what is happening, as you promised."

"Peace, Marle!" Crono said warmly, kneeling at her side "There will be time enough for strife and worry in the days ahead. Sleep and take comfort knowing that nothing but death will ever keep us apart."

She smiled, and closed her eyes.

Serge marvelled at the resilience shown in Marle, knowing now that this woman was a true princess, and not simply a high born lady. A nobility of age was in her, and yet the valour of a warrior maiden seemed to be hers also. Akin almost to Schala, he thought.

No, Schala was more sombre. A sign of her eternal years, perhaps. Marle still kept her youthful spirt, a thing that was rarely shown in Schala, despite her young appearance.

Ah, Schala.

In thinking of her Serge wondered how her own quest was proceeding in the East. He remembered now how Crono had warned her it would be no easy mission. Porre would not take kindly to having an army stirred up against them. And he did not trust Janus either, and neither, it seemed, did Crono. The wizard was a powerful man without question, but was wont to be ill tempered and heedless of any wisdom, either of his own or that of others.

"When should Janus and Schala be back?" he asked of Crono as his friend stood from Marle's side. The princess was now asleep, a restful peace passing into her face.

"Four, five days, maybe," Crono answered absently, not withdrawing his gaze from his wife. He had not seen her in two months and was not willing to leave her side after such an absence.

He looked up at Serge, sighing.

"If all goes well, and if they do not meet any resistance. I dare say that Porre will hardly allow them to have their way. But I should think that they will return here before long."

He raised his eyebrows, understanding the purpose in the question.

"You worry for them? Do not. We will be in far greater danger ourselves in the coming days. And Schala and her brother are stronger than you and I will ever be. It is the gift of the children of Zeal: to be mightier than all others. But there are times when all the might in the world cannot avail one, when other skills but power must rule to guard against ruin. I have been told many times that my greatest gift is neither in my swordcraft nor sorcery, but in my fortune. If I told you but half my stories, you would agree that by reason I should be long dead. Marle and me both. But it seems that fate has some other end in store to us. I wonder...will I know it before it comes upon us?"

Crono shook away the thought with a light laugh.

"Such musings are not for today. War is very near now."

"What are we going to do, then?" Serge asked, realizing that he had little idea as to what stratagems Crono had thought up. He had known nothing beyond the plan to rescue Marle.

"Janus and Schala are stirring up the people in the East," he replied. "War will come soon enough. But there are things that we must do, for our part."

"And what is that?" Serge asked, looking down at the Masamune which lay on the ground. Dry blood still stained its gleaming edges, a thing which Serge had forgotten in his haste. He found himself hoping now that there would be few more of such deeds in the coming days.

"Our armies will fight evenly matched, I think. Porre has some five thousands here, stationed as a foreign guard. Of them only one thousand are true born people of Porre. The rest are but mercenaries: rogues of Guardia, men with no land, and even Mystics they have taken into their service. But this means that they have some number of powerful magicians in amidst their companies. For our part we have only the same in number, and we will be hungry. But my people know their land well, and will fight with a zeal that no hired soldier could hope to match. And so we will go to war with no surety of victory, only a wavering hope. But there are ways we can better that."

"We must wait out these few days. I will not make my move until Marle is well enough to accompany us. But when she is, we will strike out again for the castle."

"Again?" Serge cried, taken by surprise at this. "Don't you think that we've tempted fate there already?"

"Yes, maybe," Crono replied. "But maybe not. Time will tell, and my fortune has always been good in such things."

"And you want to do this why?" Serge asked.

"To prepare for this war, their captains will be in counsel there. If we could slay their general, it would be a harsh blow. To have the command of the war fall to another so suddenly would be to our great advantage."

"You mean you'll assassinate him," Serge answered, not caring much for how lightly Crono had suggested this. "I think that would be dishonourable."

Crono shrugged.

"True enough, it may be. But to do it will fall upon me and Marle, then, and I will suffer whatever judgement fate deals to me. Yet it must be done."

"Serge, you do not need to wait about here. You are not known to Porre, and I think can go into the town without danger of recognition. Go for a stroll, to the tavern or elsewhere. You have had a hard enough time, I think."

Serge took Crono's advice shortly. The day was bright and new, and a gold sun was crowning the eastern clouds as he stepped from the house. A chill morning breeze whispered from the far fields, hinting of a windy day to come. Serge pulled his cloak tightly about him; the climate was far harsher than his own, though it did carry a somewhat bitter beauty of its own.

But putting aside such thoughts, worries and joys both, aside, he quickly found the village tavern. As he entered he found that he was hardly alone in seeking it out, even at such an early hour. Some dozen other people sat about the tables, some alone, some speaking with each other in such noisome tones that it seemed they were uncaring of anything else around them. The tavern itself was dim and old. The wood rafters were stained with countless years of smoke, and the floor adorned with the various shades befitting perhaps centuries of careless visitors.

"Welcome, young one!" the man at the bar called. "Not too often we see new people around here!"

Serge nodded somewhat, but remained quiet as he paced slowly to the bar. This tavern was not the sort that he often went to, and he did not like it much. But it was something, at the least. A place to free his mind of all the things that were pressing upon him now.

"Ah, stranger," the barkeep said with a great smile. "This is your first visit to our fair land, no doubt?"

Serge nodded sullenly. For all accounts, he realized, he should be elated. He had only just returned from a daring mission without so much as a scratch to show. But something kept the joy from his mind, and turned his mood dark. It was not simply the shaking fear subsiding; that he had felt before and had long ago grown used to. No, it was the manner in which they had succeeded. He had killed men, and he felt sick about it.

"You're a traveller, then?" the barkeep said, breaking sharply into Serge's thoughts. "Perhaps there is someone here who you'll like speak'n to; if nothin' else he'll want a word or two with you, I wager. Hey! Toma! This here boy's a fellow traveller, and seeming somewhat new to Guardia."

Serge glanced sharply to where the barkeep had called. Alone at a small table sat a grizzled man with sharp eyes. At the call he looked up, shifting his gaze from the man at the bar to Serge.

On seeing Serge he narrowed his eyes and took up a searching look. At last he nodded, placing his tankard heavily to the table.

"Welcome to Guardia, then, you wanderer," he said, casting his hands out. Though not unfriendly, his voice was harsh, and Serge thought that the welcome had been said with a keenly cynical edge.

"Come, sit. Let us talk of lands and people removed from this one," he continued, kicking a chair away from the table. Though his manner was rough, Serge could tell that it was not by nature but by choice, and that if this man had been in a royal court he could have been comfortable there even as he was here. A far wandering man who had seen much, and knew the ways of many peoples.

Serge took up the offer and seated himself opposite the man, though he begrudged himself for this as he did it; he found that his sullen mood was not for conversing, and he hoped that this man would not try to keep him long.

"So, you are a wanderer, as I am?" he asked, taking a draught from his tankard, draining it nearly to the dregs.

Serge nodded.

"From El Nido, to the West of here."

"I know of the region well enough, though I have yet to see it with my own eyes. And I can see that you come from there by your darkish skin. What brings you to this most wretched kingdom, Westman?"

"Nothing I can talk about," Serge replied shortly. The man saw his ill disposition and rapped his fingers upon the table with a bitter look on his face.

"Very well, then," he said, sitting back in his chair. "I suppose that leaves the part of speaking up to me. My reasons and name are no secret, and I am fairly well known, both in this land and in others."

He leaned forward on the table again, half bowing his head.

"I am Thomas the Adventurer," he said, "but am known far and wide as Toma; my family is well known in this line. My father, and his father before him, back twenty generations, have been afflicted with this wanderlust. So I see and hear much of the world: north, south, east, and west. You are from El Nido; as I have said I can see that well enough. And as for your reasons in coming to Guardia, the forsaken kingdom...?"

Serge did not reply, allowing a dark stare to rest on the man. He hoped that the question would end there, and that he would not be compelled to lie. But this man Toma was not daunted as Serge had hoped. Rather he laughed.

"As I said, I hear much, and I am no fool to the changing wind," he lowered his voice to a near whisper. "It speaks of rebellion. Guardia stirs from its fifteen year slumber, and Porre is uneasy. You would not perchance have any part in these things, would you?"

Again, Serge did not reply. And again, the man Toma laughed.

"I think you do, if by nothing else than your silence. But do not worry, I will not betray you to your enemies. See, I too am of allegiance to this land of Guardia. My eyes and ears are in the service of its exiled king."

Serge looked at the man with caution. He was somewhat grim, and of like age to Crono. For all Serge could tell he seemed to be very much of Guardia, his skin of a somewhat paler shade like all that northern people, and his stern and truthful tone did not seem to hint at any treachery. Still Serge was wary.

"Well, I would say that the wind says a lot of things. Be careful that you don't hear wrong," he answered, priding himself on the ambiguity he had shown.

Toma smiled, raising his tankard and taking the last draught of ale.

"Well said, well said. You speak so cautiously, I cannot help but think that I strike near with my words. But I merely read the signs, as I have said. The princess is freed this very morning. Porre has threatened to burn the villages. And in the east, two stately strangers journey from town to town, proclaiming that the salvation of Guardia is at hand."

Serge, against his will, started somewhat. And Toma noticed.

"You know of this, then? Then tell me, is it true what I have heard: that one is none other than the great Sorcerer of old, Magus the Lord of Mystics, the age old enemy of Guardia?"

Serge knew he should not reply, but his eyes betrayed his alarm. He could not know if this man was simply a keen minded traveller or a spy in the service of Porre, for he seemed to know more than any man should about these things. But Toma's eager words faltered off when he saw that Serge was determined to remain resolutely quiet. He sat backwards in his chair looking, now in his turn now, warily at Serge. Finally he nodded.

"May the star of Guardia shine forever, I say to you. I should hope you know what this means. If not, it will be I that have betrayed my trust."

Serge felt some relief sweep through him. That, as he remembered from the night before, was the bond-word of the resistance.

"Yes," he answered. "That's the secret sign of your resistance. I heard it last night."

When Toma heard that Serge too knew what it meant, he seemed to be at ease once again.

"As I thought then. Though it is wise not to speak overmuch of these matters in such a place," he said with a nod at their surroundings. "But I trust we can now at least speak as allies. I must admit I find it a wonder that you, a man of El Nido, would be here in Guardia to fight for its freedom. Lord Crono has many strange friends, or so I have heard, but I did not think he had travelled so far to the West."

"I've only been here for a week or so. I came East with the Crono and two others."

"Two others?" Toma asked curiously. "Tell me, is it these two in the East?"

Serge nodded.

"Prince Janus and Princess Schala. But I wouldn't expect you know who they are."

"Janus?" Toma exclaimed. "That name at least I know. If my memory serves me rightly, and I think it does, that is the birth name of the Sorcerer, is it not?"

"I would guess so. But I'm sure that you know more about Guardia and history than I do."

"Ah! It is then as I have heard. The great Sorcerer," Toma said with a shake of his head. "On side with Guardia. I have heard it said that he had long ago fought aside the King to battle an ancient evil, but I had scare believed it as more than legend. And this other you speak of, this Schala. Who might she be? Royalty, no doubt, as you have named her a princess. Some great enchantress, maybe?"

"She's the last princess of Zeal, and Janus' sister," Serge replied shortly, feeling altogether spent and not wanting to spend to long in conversation.

"The princess of Zeal? Wonders abound in these days. We are fortunate to see them come upon us."

He paused, seeing that with every moment Serge wanted to speak the less of these things.

"But enough of this, then," he said. "I see you have lately come through great duress. Here, I will tell you of things that I have seen. You know the west well enough, I dare say. And some of Guardia, maybe. But there are countless other lands, and it is my ambition to see every one before I die. So far I have seen but the east, yet even this is a tale that would take a chronicler a decade to tell. Rome is gone for near to a millennia, but others kingdoms have risen in its stead. There there are temples and palaces which tower high into the air and are built of white limestone. There are pillars and monuments, skilfully carved and edged with beaten gold. I have seen tombs of lapis lazuli, halls of marble, and thrones of ivory. It seems that men are ever trying to recall the splendour of ancient Zeal." He smiled. "Now there is a thing I would be keen to see."

"You know your king's story, don't you?"

"Oh, certainly! I have spent the last twenty years lamenting that I cannot do the same: see the ages of this world unfold in their marvellous majesty. Then, perhaps, I would understand things as they are."

"But maybe you wouldn't like what you see. I've seen a thing or two also, even though you might not think so, and if I learned one thing it's not to think that things are as great as they seem. History might seem all wonderful, but there's a lot of darkness there that not many people ever write about, and would be less than wonderful to live through."

Toma smiled at this, nodding his head in agreement.

"A grim outlook. Still, wisely said for one so young. You must have seen much in your travels, wherever they were. True enough, my friend; evil oft hides itself behind splendour. And even now, this is often so. In the east there are shadows. There are kings that are nearly as powerful as Porre, and have hearts dark for conquest. I have travelled through these kingdoms myself, have stood in their royal courts, and seen these lords with my own eyes, men eager for power. After witnessing such things, I do not put much faith in any might now. Porre seems strong to those under its heel, but there is much power in the east as well. When there I saw the champion of a great king do remarkable feats. There, now, is a tale worth listening to:

I was in the halls of this certain king, the Lord Ter-Nimureth as he was called, who held sway over a vast empire that stretched from the eastern deserts to the verges of the sea. I, for my part, was there learning the ways of the Eastern people. Then one day a man came into the hall, claiming to be a great sorcerer and warrior. From his side hung a mighty sword, bejewelled and laced with gold thread. He would not name himself, but said that he came from a rival king, and that he sought single combat with the champion of the royal court. Then there was a great hush, for this man seemed very grim and deadly. His robes were unblemished white, and silver lined; his hair shimmered raven black. I never saw his eyes, but I do not think I could have met them. But the king only laughed, and accepted the challenge as if it were but a light matter. Then a ring was made in the hall before the feet of the throne. The strange warrior stepped into it, unafraid. Then the king summoned his own champion.

I must say, if the presence of the white warrior had been one of awe, to stand before the champion was to stand before the face of Terror itself. He was black clad, and with armour as dark and gleaming as jet. He bore a great shield, and an incomparable sword to match. His face was hidden behind the dark visor, and I found myself praying that it would not be displayed, for I did not think that the face could be any but that of a monster.

That battle was short. The white warrior put all his strength forward, but in three strokes his golden sword had shattered to pieces and lay like broken glass of gold on the ground. Without a weapon, he put forth a spell: fire, lightning, and light as bright as the sun. But it was to no avail. The champion laughed at this display, and the sorcery seemed to skip harmlessly past. He strode forward untouched and struck off his opponent's head with one merciless stroke. In token of his victory he took the hilt of the ruined sword, and left the court without a single word.

I remained in the hall some time after, listening to the talk of the courtiers and, unless my wits failed me, even the king feared this fell warrior of his, a knight seeming more like a demon than a man. It seemed he had come to the court some years before out of the desert, where he had been found poor and sickly by shepherds. The king had sheltered the man, who in turn had shown great skill with a sword become a knight of his court. But soon thereafter it was discovered that he was no mere peasant turned soldier. It was widely rumoured that he was some mighty sorcerer prince, or even king, who had ruled a vast realm, but had been defeated in a great battle long before. Men whispered that had come to this land so that he might rebuild his might, and then return to reclaim his throne. Where it was, I could not learn, for he had never spoken of it to anyone. But I heard him tell the king:

'Soon I must return to the west, for my business lies there.'

Which is why I think that his throne is in some westward land, though I have not heard of any such dark king in all of history, and I know it from King Gilgamesh of Uruk to the fall of imperial Rome."

Toma smiled as his last mysterious words trailed off. Despite his disinterest in the man but minutes before, Serge had been listening intently, intrigued with this tale from a distant land. No doubt what Toma had intended when he began it, and he did not seem to be bothered that he was the only one speaking.

"Who was this knight, we may never know. But I see you take interest in my tale, young man. It is true; I swear on my honour as a child of Guardia. And I have many such stories. Some day I will write an account of them, though I fear that most will think them but fantasy. Those travellers who tell tales of dragons and such things are thought to be mad, and for their pains often find prison rather than an eager crowd as a reward. Though I wager even prison would not keep me from speaking of what I know."

He looked about, glancing out the window.

"It is nearing midday. I must be leaving: a ship awaits me in the Western havens to bear me away to El Nido, and I must board it in three days time."

Toma stood and nodded at Serge.

"Keep a keen mind, and be ever ready to grasp your sword, my friend. Shadows are everywhere, and those who seek to counter them are few indeed. As for me, I continue now on my wandering. Soon I will set out West to the lands where the sun sets, and will come even to your homeland before long. But that is tomorrow, and this is today. Farewell. Give my Lord Crono my best wishes and fortune, from the adventurer Toma, ever his loyal subject."

With a slow gait he stepped out the door of the tavern and into the sunlight.

Serge could only wonder to himself after this. Though he felt somewhat pleased to be alone again, his thoughts gave him none of the comfort he had thought they should have. Rather, his many worries and wonderings returned to him the moment he turned his thoughts inward; a thing not unknown to him, and not unlike that which had afflicted him before, while he was bound to the torment of his dreams. Had he merely left one frustration to find another? It had not always been so with him, and he wondered if it was not Schala's seal that still shadowed his heart. Courage, will, fortitude...they all seemed diminished, and he could not easily shake his doubts. And what then, in the midst of all of this, had he thrown himself into? He cursed himself for his choice now. Had he remained at home, as indeed had been his chance, he could have been free of all of this uncertainty.

And so Serge did not feel inclined to visit the tavern much more. Because of Toma's words warning of war his thoughts hung heavy, and he did not wish to hear about dark premonitions. He instead took to wandering the fields that lay about the village, finding solace in the solitude and beauty of the wild. On occasion he saw fellow travellers, but he did no more than greet them in passing. His days were spent from morning to night listening to the wind and musing on his own mission.

It was better, certainly, than in the town, and his mind was not so quick to bury itself in doubt. But even so he thought more than once of returning home. He assured himself that his coming had not been in vain, and that he had provided some small help. He had accompanied Crono into the castle, and had saved Marle with his timely stroke. But whenever he thought of that the remembrance of the blood on his sword came returned to mind. It was a strange thing that it haunted him so. It hadn't been an evil thing, and he hadn't done it out of spite or in cold blood. But even so the thought of having ended two other human lives didn't sit lightly in his mind.

But he had learned something at least from his many months with his dreams, and he for the most part chose not to think too much on it. It was past, and he could only hope that he would not be called on for such a thing again. That thought, among others, compelled him to go home.

Yet ever and again he would look about. He would see the peaceful woods, filled with tranquil streams, and fields of tall grass swaying as a sea in the breezes, such a form of nature he had never known or imagined. And then would have those visions of rugged paradise shattered on his return to the town. He saw there a people who had a land of beauty comparable to his own, yet lived under such fear and oppression that they could give little thought to things of joy. Rather, they were ever fearing that the following winter might be without food, or that the armies of Porre would destroy them; they remained as an ever present threat in the citadel only a little ways away through the forests. It was for this people that Crono fought. It was for them that the princess Marle had nearly died. A kingdom hoping for heroes as they had once had, yearning for salvation from their conquerors. And the more that Serge saw them, the greater his desire to help them became. Was not the Masamune, the mightiest sword ever forged by mortal hands, his to command? Was it not his duty, then, to use its power when need came?

For five days Serge wandered and thought, returning to the house only to assure Crono that he had not abandoned him. All the while Crono cared for his wife, who speedily recovered from her wounds. Though sickness still hovered over her, and a slight fever lingered, she was well enough to stand within half a week. By the end of the fifth day no trace of her injuries, other than the lightest of scars, remained to bear remembrance of her captivity. When Serge returned that night with the setting sun he found her standing in the middle of the house, holding earnest debate with Crono.

"Tomorrow," she said as Serge entered. "We have no more time. Janus, he will be back then."

"Maybe," Crono said. "There is only a chance, however."

"They have been gone long enough, and Janus does not do things cautiously. Or have you forgotten?"

Crono shook his head.

"He is certainly zealous, I am not contending that."

"Yes," Marle replied. "I haven't seen him in fifteen years, and I don't want to greet that friend without something to show for it. He would respect it more if we returned successful."

She turned to Serge, looking him over curiously.

"Now here is one I have not seen much of. Crono says you've been out wandering the wold these past five days. Truce not to your liking?"

Serge smiled somewhat at her swift speech.

"Not really. I've never been much for crowds and cities."

"Ah, well then I would warn you never go to Porre," she answered. "Come to think of it, I'd warn myself about that as well, what with me being an enemy princess and all. But now then, we must make time for our introductions."

She bowed a little, but cast her head up with a laugh immediately.

"No, I don't have much care for the formal court greetings. And you know who I am already; Crono's certainly told you enough about me. Once princess, adventurer, archer," she paused with a look at Crono, "have I forgotten anything?"

"Hero?" Crono suggested.

"Ah, yes. I'm always forgetting that one. Well, that's about all there is to me, I think. And you? Crono's not really told me anything. It seems that he thinks a mysterious sort of introduction is better. So?"

"Well," Serge said. "I don't know exactly what to say about myself."

Crono shrugged.

"He is too modest to give account of his own deeds. It is telling that the sword he carries is the Masamune."

Marle's expression turned to one of wonder.

"The Masamune? That's a high calling, my friend. You must have a lot to live up to, being its master; Sir Glenn once wielded it, and he was the greatest of all swordsmen I ever saw, save only my husband. Where is it?" she asked curiously, glancing about the room. Her eyes alighted slowly on its shimmering blades in the corner.

"That is it, isn't it?" she asked. "Not much like I remember, though. Well, enough about weapons. What else do you have to say for yourself, Serge? I know Crono would hardly have brought you along without good reason."

Serge ran his hand through his hair.

"I fought Lavos, like I heard you did once. But most everything else I did was only important to my home islands in the west, so they're really not worth mentioning."

"Fought Lavos?" Marle asked with a dark curiosity. "When? He has been dead a long time. Or did you travel through time too? Crono," she said with a sigh, "I appreciate your concern, but I would have liked to hear these things earlier. So, what of it, then?"

"He lived, Marle," Crono answered bitterly. "He was a foe greater than we had reckoned with."

"Accursed hell and hades," Marle muttered. "After all we went through, after all we suffered and lost, he didn't die at all? But the future. We saved it, that was for certain; we saw it ourselves."

Crono nodded.

"So it seemed. But we had only delayed its destruction for a time. In the end the future had refused to change, for we but sent the dark future to the Tesseract."

"So we did," she said with a smile, "our finest hour."

But Crono shook his head.

"But Lavos found the means and power to return, even from there, it seems. The future apocalypse was condemned, not destroyed, and very nearly had its vengeance. This dark shadow that lingered in the Tesseract is that which Serge destroyed. He finished what we began so long ago."

"Well, then," Marle said. "I guess we can hope to finally forget about Lavos, that means. You've done us all, and by all I mean all the world, a service, Serge," and she added: "A brave service; I would not have wanted to face that demon again, I assure you," she finished with the hint of a shudder.

She looked at the two of them.

"Now, how many of us are there? We've got you two. There's me. And then Janus who's off gallivanting somewhere in the East. Only four? Though I suppose we are fortunate even for this; who in this world but we care for Guardia, after all?"

"There's Schala also," Serge said. "And that makes us five."

She sighed, with seeming supreme frustration now.

"Crono, that at least you could have told me. The princess Schala? From old Zeal? Last we saw her she was caught in the crumbling Ocean Palace; we thought her surely dead. So Janus actually found her?"

Crono nodded faintly.

"Yes, but by their account only recently, and I myself have not heard from Janus the tale of his quest. He is as silent and subject to his mood as ever. But I can tell at least that his years have been no less than our own, maybe more. He is certainly aged now, and I believe even his hair is being touched by grey at last. Though to little surprise he has declined to tell me what his years are."

Marle closed her eyes with a second sigh.

"We all age and tire; I feel myself wither with the years, and know that had I been ten years younger, I would not have been captured. But what of the Princess Schala? There is a lot you haven't told me yet, and before we begin I demand to know it all."

It was well into that evening before all the tales were told and sorted out. Or as ordered as they might be. Even Serge had difficulty understanding why or how some things had occurred, and could only say that Schala would have to answer when she returned.

They rested only lightly that night, having to sleep with the knowledge that tomorrow they would throw themselves into peril once again. Serge told himself countless times that this was in no way dissimilar to every adventure and quest he had ever embarked upon before, but it was to no avail in allaying his pensive mood. When he rose in the morning, he found himself neither rested nor calmed, and it was with weariness that he made himself ready to depart the house.

Marle, however, was ever ready and alert, despite it being only days since her rescue. Her eyes proclaimed her healed enough, and Crono yielded at last to her decision to strike out for the castle the coming evening. Serge voiced dissent a few times over the course of the day, but could not sway their path; and so it became his road as well.

Two hours after nightfall they set out, three shrinking furtively into the great woods. Crono, as always, bore his great sword sheathed at his side. Also, now, he carried a short yew bow across his shoulder, but was dressed as ever in his rough travel clothes. Marle looked scarce better than he; her robes were hardly royal and, if her eyes looked clearer, her face still bore the traces of scars that ran deeper than magic could mend. Over her shoulder was slung a strange form of weapon, or at least one unlike to any which Serge had ever seen. Its short bow lay bound fast to the far end of a shaped handle. It seemed that the string could be held taut and poised, so that the firing might be delayed without the need for much strength.

"A crossbow," Crono replied to his questioning look. "In an age of cruel empires wielding rifles, it might still be thought a useful weapon. It is more precise, and no armour of the Empire can hold against a bolt."

It was show of the strange fortunes that befell with conquest. A hundred years ago Serge's people were fishermen and hunters arrayed with simple nets and bows. Now a rifle was a common sight, and yet such an archaic weapon as a crossbow that fell in-between the two had never been seen.

But all things had begun to turn to odd ends. Serge himself no longer dressed as one of El Nido, but had adopted the Guardian raiment of clothes long and loose, dyed in drab silvan shades. This for the twofold purpose of warmth and secrecy. The days had begun to shorten, and had become very much colder even in these past few days. It had been a great surprise to Serge to awaken one morning to find the grass crowned with frost, and had discovered that his southern clothes were hardly of any aid when the dew itself froze. Thereafter he had cast aside his long worn clothing favour of the much warmer dress of a Guardian peasant. And the second purpose was one that Crono himself had insisted upon. Though he allowed Serge to still wear his loose coat of mail, which itself was less uncommon here in Guardia than in El Nido, his traditional clothes of bright blue and stark black would draw the attention of even the dullest eyes.

And so as he set out for a second time for the castle, in the company of two others rather than only one, he looked to be no different than any young man of the land, unless it was his sun darkened skin that betrayed his birthland.

"And once again, into the tombs," Crono whispered at the base of the walls. It amazed Serge constantly with what assurance his leader carried himself. Whatever doubts plagued him, if any, remained buried beyond sight or perception. Not without reason did others look to him for guidance.

Even as the last time they crept down the crevice. By the light of the Masamune they again passed through the catacombs, though they were now as silent as wraiths. No whispered words of explanation, their footfalls might have been those of death itself.

They came up the stairs, and into the cathedral. Behind the door to the tombs was shut again, to the eyes no more than a stone wall.

But Serge had no more than a moment's glance in its direction; Crono led them quickly onward, following the very same path that the two alone had trod only days before. It was a great comfort, however, to have seen the hidden door yet undisturbed; if they were found it would be the surest means of escape.

On reaching the choir. Crono paused, taking a glance at Marle.

"The walls?" he asked shortly. "Or the courtyard? You know this fortress somewhat better than I do."

"The walls," she said, "though I think they are the more dangerous of two."

And so they went on, not climbing downward, but across to where the cathedral met the battlements. It was more ardourous then before as well, for the holds by which they made their way were difficult to find. But even so they found the wall more swiftly than might be thought.

And it was well that they found it at that moment also for, even as Serge leaped onto the flat stone of the east battlements, they saw the door of a small guardhouse, that stood a dozen metres along the wall, open. Without a moment of thought, Marle sprang forward. A soldier stepped out, only to be silenced with the blade edge of the knife before he could make a sound.

"Where must we go now?" Crono asked of Marle. "Do you know of where they meet?"

She returned her blood darkened knife to its scabbard.

"I wager the throne room. That is likely where they would hold a debate in war matters."

She traced her finger through the night, pointing along the battlements and up the winding stairs that encircled the keep till she motioned to a high window.

"That is our path, and that is where we must go. You two need only to guard me; the shot will be mine to make."

They made to continue, but Crono halted Serge.

"Take this," he whispered, handing him the bow and quiver from his back. "If it comes to fighting, it would be best to keep them at bowshot."

"I can't shoot," Serge said, but his protest was silenced with a smiling nod from Crono.

"No matter. Do what you can. An arrow overhead is almost as good as an arrow through the heart. We need not kill them, only keep them from coming upon us until we make good our escape."

Taking the weapon and words with uncertainty, Serge followed the two along the walls.

Presently they came to the join between the walls and keep, where a small stair led into the keep and then up to the high levels above. This path they took, ever so quiet and watchful. When at last they came to the floor at which the window lay, they cautiously crept from the stairs and out beneath the eaves that rimmed the level above. Though high upon the wall of the keep, a hundred feet from the courtyard below, this was not so perilous a climb as the one across the cathedral had been. The edge upon which they crept ran the wall round, and was wide enough that two might have gone abreast. They came to the window soon enough; Marle, at the head, stole a fleeting glance through the window. He turned and nodded to Crono.

"It is they. The general, and his captains."

She removed a length of rope from her pack, and wound it tightly about a jutting decoration that adorned the edge of the ledge, assuring herself of its strength with a short pull. Their escape would need to be quick, and could afford no delays once the deed was done.

She returned to the window, her fingers grasping her weapon tightly.

A hunter waiting to spring upon unwary prey, was the thought that came to Serge as he saw Marle there. Her eyes were keenly intent, and discerningly swept the gathering below. Though he kept to the shadows, he knew that there must be a large company of leaders in the throne room; he could hear their voices echoing high and into the night.

"Our problem might be our armies amassing quickly enough," Serge heard from below. "My General, the Eastern Reserves will be ready at your call, but I cannot speak for my comrades here."

"Well, then?" came the reply, from a deeper and surer voice that was undoubtedly that of the aged general. "What say you, captains? Are your forces ready to crush a rebellion of starving peasants?"

A shrill laugh resounded throughout the hall.

"The good captain of the East does not give us due credit, I think," another voice replied to the others. "We are ever ready in the West, and could even fight Acacians if need compelled us to. And I believe that my words speak for the South as well."

"They do, most certainly. Not from the South will failure come," a fourth affirmed, who was certainly the commander of the southern armies.

"But what of our Guard?" the voice of the Eastern commander called out. "Our auxiliary legions are ready, it appears, but is our vaunted Imperial Guard prepared? What of the Black Wind? Or have they had their hand in shadow work so long that they have forgotten what it means to fight a war on the field?"

"Good commander, I would that you not insult my legion so lightly. Small in number though we may be, it is not without reason that we are feared more than a legion of your own troops."

And this, Serge knew at once, was Norris.

"Yes, Captain Norris, you and your damned wizards," one of the other army commanders scoffed. "If we had our say, the only sorcerers that the Empire would suffer would be those Mystic fools that we pay to fight for us. A lot of good it does you, as it is. Two years, and you fail to catch one brigand."

"A hero, I must remind you. The prince is a greater foe than you three have ever dealt with. Once only did I see him in battle. He massacred a troop of my crack men, alone. And they say he has passed through time itself."

"It would be wise not to fill your mind with fairy tales, Norris," came the reply. "If you begin believing such stories, we may have reason to doubt your sanity."

"Have you not read the histories of this country, Commander Morgawaise?" Norris said so softly that it could barely be heard. "How do you account for the defeat of the Mystics four hundred years ago? Guardia numbered twenty thousands; the Mystics, it is said, marched north more than one hundred thousand strong. But they say that when all hope was lost a stranger arose and assaulted the very fortress of the sorcerer Janibas. They say it was none other than the prince; if this is true, he is not one to be caught lightly."

"Come now!" the shrill voice of the Western commander replied. "We all know that it was only good fortune, as so often happens in war. As for the matter of this brigand, maybe the General should have let the military handle the matter rather than the Imperial Guard."

"Maybe the General knows better what he does than the good commander," Norris said with what seemed to be a calm anger. "It was not the Black Wind that allowed the princess Nadia to escape. But is not her capture to our credit?"

"You think too much of yourself, Norris," the commander said disdainfully.

"Hardly. I simply think little of you fools. I counselled against the execution of the princess, for the very reason we sit here now!" Norris cried, his voice rising loud now. "You have driven Guardia to rebellion, I fear. Only time will tell if you are fortunate, or bring down ruin on us all."

"He wouldn't have executed her. I told you, I know him. He isn't evil," Serge said to Crono, but was silenced with a dark stare.

"What he said means only that he is cunning, Serge. He did not want to kill Marle for his own ends; had he held us both, I think our deaths by his hand would have been assured. Do not mistake calculated patience for mercy. Even if you are right, such deliberations are not for today."

Marle turned about and took up her crossbow.

"Enough listening to their endless debates," she muttered. "They won't say anything that we don't know or cannot guess at. But their bickering gives us hope; there will be division among their leaders concerning who should take generalship."

Pulling a bolt noiselessly from her quiver, Marle shrunk back to the shadows. Her slender fingers expertly drew back the bow of the crossbow, placing the taut string upon the catch.

"For Guardia," she whispered resolutely to Crono, clasping her hand in his.

He nodded.

"For the land of freedom, and all those who seek to be free," he responded. "Try not to miss," he added, with the hint of a smile.

Not replying, but casting a glance of mock annoyance upon him, Marle stole towards the window wherein she saw the General far below. Carefully and slowly she and placed the bolt before the string. With utmost concentration she took aim with her weapon. Serge saw that her arms trembled slightly as she did so, though her eyes remained unwavering upon her prey.

"The sting of Guardia," Marle whispered, tightening her finger about the trigger.

With hardly a sound the bolt leaped from her weapon, the crossbow recoiling violently in her hands. But sure and true the bolt fled. With a heart riven in two, the general fell dead even as he sat in counsel with his commanders. So sudden it was that for a moment that seemed near endless, not a word, not a sound was heard inside or out. But only for an instant, for as the astonishment abated from the captains, their fear turned to alarm and anger.

"To the walls!" Serge heard a commander yell. "We are under attack! They have slain the general!"

"This would tend to be the best time to flee," Marle said, slinging her crossbow over her shoulder, "Our work is done here."

Immediately taking her counsel they cautiously slid down the rope a hundred feet down into the courtyard. But even as they did a bell tolled somewhere in the keep, raising the alarm. There would be no easy escape now.

A cry rang out.

An archer on the battlements had spotted them as they ran across the yard. Serge swept an arrow out of his quiver and struck it to his bow, taking his aim at the distant soldier. A bolt whistled past his ear. Serge pulled taut the string till he could no more, and let it slip. The arrow flew from his bow and, with fortunate deadly accuracy that startled him, struck the soldier in the chest. Where he fell they did not see. Serge turned to Crono with a relieved smile but started, as shocked as the company of gods when that accursed mistletoe rove the heart of Baldur the Beautiful. For the bolt that has so narrowly missed him had struck Marle in the chest. She gasped shortly, drawing at a fleeting breath. She stumbled forward a step, striving to remain standing despite the pain that burned as fire in her chest. But her arms yielded their strength and her crossbow slipped from her fingers; it fell to the ground with a clatter that resounded throughout the courtyard. Tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled against the agony of the wound, but for all her bravery it was mortal and she faltered, her legs yielding beneath her though she willed them to stand. She clutched at the arrow as she dropped to the ground, her face still fighting the pain that beset her. Crono was at her side in a heartbeat, his arms steading her fall.

He held her in his arms, oblivious to the darkening blood that stained his clothes. They said not a word, but merely looked on each other, uncountable sadness in their eyes as her life's blood drained slowly away. Serge could do no more than watch. The arrow had struck too near her heart and was seemingly venomed with a fell poison. It was fatal, he knew, for no magic either of them possessed even together could hope to mend such a wound. This Crono saw, too. Yet he could not believe that she, his wife who had defied the mighty Lavos, should end this way. Marle was now overcome by the pain at last, and the tears streamed down her pale face. So too did Crono weep, agony burning his spirit. Her body quivered in his arms as he held her tight, unwilling to abandon all hope. He kissed her gently on her cold lips, hoping perhaps to give her some strength. But it was to no avail. Yet even as her body gave up its life her spirit remained strong, and she spoke to Crono one last time, reminding him to recall his courage and valour, for she knew her end had come, but his was not upon him yet.

"Farewell, Crono. My heart is stilled. Take care of yourself now. What has come has come. You must now continue alone for Guardia. Guardia needs you, never forget, it will always need you. Ultimum vale...and don't forget me..."

Crono ran his hand through her hair, and kissed her once more, his tears falling like rain on her face. With her last strength she smiled at him. And then her life left her and she died.

Long Crono sat motionless, cradling her lifeless body in his arms, hoping that by some miracle life would be recalled to it. But by no magic nor act of God did her spirit return. And Crono grieved, as deeply as anyone ever had, finally overcome and his spirit crushed. Laying her gently to rest on the stone he stood and looked at Serge. But his eyes were hollow, and it seemed to Serge that with the passing of her fire, Crono's soul had fled as well; his hands and clothes were dyed red in her blood, but he did not care nor notice.

His sword swept out. With a blank gaze he stared with transfixed eyes at its shining blade, now a pale sheen, a grim reflection of his heart. For his desire for life had ended with Marle's own. His being had been bound to hers, and hers to his. So all had now lost its meaning. Guardia, Porre, and everything he had ever done was forgotten to him. As he prepared to throw himself on the blade Serge did nothing to stay him, both unsure and frightened by what he saw.

Yet, even as Crono prepared to seek some meagre comfort in death, the last words of Marle returned to him as the whisper of a midnight wraith: 'Guardia will always need you, never forget...'. Had she not with her dying breath reminded him to remember his valour? He held his sword before him, some of the life returning to his eyes. With her last strength she had reminded him of what he must do yet, of his duty as prince. That he would honour, her last admonition to him. He whispered quietly to her body, his grief now replaced by a calm rage.

"No, I will not die today, and not by my own hand. You are wiser than me and spoke truly. Guardia must be restored."

He placed his sword to rest on the ground beside her; the blade was no longer fully pale, but touched with a faint gleam of crimson.

"With this blade shall you be avenged in blood, Marle, princess of Guardia, foe of Lavos." His face darkened. "And may it damn your foes to Hades. I shall never forget you, though all else fade. Farewell..."

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)


	12. Sparks to Kindling

CHAPTER XI

**SPARKS TO KINDLING

* * *

**

"Crono!" Serge whispered urgently and pointed to the distant battlements. Despite the cry of the archer, their presence in the square had, by good chance, gone unnoticed. But now the walls of the castle were alive with running soldiers, and Serge knew it was only moments, if so long, before they were spotted.

"Crono, we have to get out of here!" he said with a quickening pulse. Uncertainty, fear, and a keen shock swept over him; his hands shook and were pale.

Crono was slow to respond, the pain of death still visible in his eyes.

"Yes," he said with a soulless voice. "Serge, help me with her."

He stooped lifting Marle's body to his shoulders. Serge indeed thought it unwise to attempt escape while burdened, but was neither willing nor able to argue with Crono, who had suffered enough already. Together they bore her body out of the square with all the speed their wills could grant them, and tried for the cathedral.

But they had tarried too long, and even as they crossed the great stone threshold, the enemy was upon them. But their foes knew little of them, or of the fury that was alive in Crono's heart. Two fell with death enshrouded eyes at the door: one to an arrow of Serge's, the other riven through the heart by Crono's merciless blade. The others fell back for an instant, daunted by the wrath that burned in his face, and fearing his blade that shimmered darkly with red blood.

Seeing the momentary fear of his foes, Serge pulled with all his might on the wooden doors of the cathedral and, with a crash that echoed throughout the open sanctuary, shut them fast in the faces of his enemies.

"Crono, we have to leave her!" he said to Crono as he barred the doors, his voice echoing loudly in the vast stone chamber. He painfully shook his fingers, that had twice now fired a fatal arrow. "Otherwise we won't make it out of here alive ourselves!" he added with somewhat of a tremble to his voice.

"Then you go, Serge. I've asked more of you already than I should have. I'll take her myself. If I die my fate will be no worse than hers."

Serge sighed. Whatever would happen, he would not abandon his friend.

"Okay, I'll help you," he said. "But we have to hurry. They'll blast the doors any minute."

Across the sanctuary they ran, between the many rows of pews that sat dusty and unused. But her limp body slowed them greatly, and even as they entered the hidden entrance to the catacombs they heard the echo of the explosion that marked the destruction of the doors. Necessity rallying their strength, they ran through the crypts, praying that the Porre soldiers still knew nothing of these tunnels. Around them the withered visages of the long departed once more watched them pass with sightless eyes. And the air down there was sickly stale, all the more slowing their already burdened flight. But their prayers were certainly answered, and it was long before the men of Porre discovered the entrance and further crypts. And, when they finally did, their prey had slipped out of that place of resting death and into the great forest that girded the castle.

Then the two were again in dire peril, for the commanders of Porre were stubborn beyond what they had counted on, and many soldiers were sent out into the forest in patrols of three and four. Many a time Crono and Serge, spent and unable to fight, only just managed to slip into the darkness as a troop passed their way. Indeed, the soldiers were thorough as to their orders. But for all their searching, the men of Porre hailed from a land of rolling plains and had little woodcraft. Though burdened and weary, Crono and Serge soon lost them in the dark woods. When the last patrols had finally faded away, and only the sounds of the night greeted their ears, they stopped. Finding an open space they placed Marle's body to rest in a shallow grave that they dug with their hands, and covered with earth. All the while they did not speak, the stars shining brightly between the dark trees overhead, seemingly unaware of the mortal sadness that lay below. When they had finished Crono strew wildflowers over the mound, and lamented her death with great sorrow, singing songs to her grave.

Finally he took to staring at her grave with tear clouded eyes, whispering with quivering words: "Marle, Marle. Once beloved. Now beloved. Beloved for all eternity. May even the angels weep at your passing."

It was long before he said any words to Serge. When he finally did, they were filled with sadness, and Serge could see he fought back his tears only with great difficulty.

"She would have liked to rest here in the forest amongst the trees. She never cared much for formalities, not from the first day I knew her."

A pale and sad smile swept his lips.

"Oh, how clearly I remember that day even now. But time is so cruel. Twenty years: so much time in measure, yet so little in mind."

He looked down at her grave for a space, then slowly drew his eyes upward.

"No greater place for her to lie. For this, Serge, this clearing here is the very glade from where we first journeyed into the future. That very place," he said pointing to a dark corner of the space. He looked at Serge.

"Go, Serge. My plans are unwound, and I must re-weave them. I would wish to be left alone for a while, to contemplate what course our fortunes should now take. And for this I must have peace..."

He knelt once more over the grave.

"Serge, hasten! Tell Janus and Schala; for they must be told. Tell them I have failed in my vows to the one I have loved beyond the world itself...but rest assured I will find you again, if you will only wait."

Serge took an uncertain step backwards, then paused; he did not wish to abandon Crono now, not like this: alone, bereft of Marle, and defeated.

Crono smiled weakly, understanding that Serge felt himself constrained by the friendship that lay between them.

"You are a faithful friend, Serge, but do not worry yourself over my fate. My heart is indeed broken forever, but my will at least shall hold sway over me for a while yet."

Serge opened his mouth to speak, to say anything to perhaps console his friend, but thought the better of it, knowing no apt words of comfort. With a small nod he left Crono there, kneeling over the grave of his beloved, and ran off into the cold dark of the forest.

----

Hours later he found himself upon Truce again. Rushing through the house door he found both Janus and Schala but lately returned from their quest. They sat near to the dying fire in the hearth, playing chess in grave silence. At Serge's sudden entrance they both looked up in alarm, much surprised by the sudden interruption.

"Serge?" Janus asked, rising from his seat. "What has happened? I sense some evil has occurred."

But Serge did not know the way in which to respond. Janus had been an old friend of the Princess. A comrade in arms of hers he, as Crono, had fought countless battles at her side. And so Serge feared the wrath he would show at these bitter tidings. Moreover the grief of the death had now come full upon Serge himself, and so he was unwilling to speak of it.

"Serge?" Janus asked again, gripping him by the shoulders and looking him gravely in the eyes. "I feel some darkness in your mind. And a dark wind chills my soul of late, a portent of dread I know all too well. I charge you to tell me: who has died?"

Without a word Serge stepped over to where the half finished game of chess sat, and sullenly knocked the white queen clattering to the floor. Then wordlessly, as Janus stood aghast over the meaning in this, he took leave of their company and stepped outdoors again.

Having been standing at rest for a short time, the cool night air once again stung at him. And yet he did not care so much now as he had in days before. Perhaps he was beginning to become accustomed to the weather, or maybe he was only too shaken to think overmuch on it. Finding a dark corner of the building where light of neither moon nor house shone he sat himself down. Upon his mind the full meaning of the events now took hold. The past was set as it was: Marle was dead, and no powers that any of them, Janus as well, possessed could reawaken the dead to true life. But the previous night the future had been so clear, the days ahead planned out in strategy and cunning. Yet they had been grievously overconfident, not accounting that one of them should die. Now where did they stand? All their stratagems were but ashes in fate's merciless wind, and their captain had left them with only a doubtful promise of return.

"What happened happens to all who seek such paths, Serge," Janus said, coming out of the shadows that hung about the corners of the building.

"Don't you feel any sadness, Janus?" he asked of his friend, feeling a sudden surge of anger that even now the wizard was unyieldingly cold hearted. At the death, moreover, of one whom he had once called friend.

"Of course he does," Schala said, coming up beside Serge and kneeling at his side. "He is not pitiless. But he knows also the truth of what has happened. We, as she was, are warriors by destiny. Death is not unknown to those who live by the sword and spilled blood."

Janus leaned back against the wall, and Serge saw that his face was sorrowful, though his words were plain.

"Serge, it was her fate. Weep we may for what the webs of fate place across our path, but know that things are not ended by her death. Tomorrow still comes, dawn will arise once more, and new days await us with the morning sun. But tell me now ere anything else is said. What happened that this should befall?"

And then Serge, though in no wise assuaged in his sorrow, told of what had chanced. Of her daring rescue even moments before her execution. Of the harrowing flight out of the castle, and her coming to safety. And of the ill fated plan to bring discord to their enemies.

"Curses," Janus muttered angrily. "Had I been there, things may have been otherwise. That Crono did not welcome me along..."

But Schala cut into his words sternly.

"Yes, otherwise! But not surely for the better. Who knows how that would have gone, for all then would have been changed. You of all men should know that the intricacies of future, past, and fate are not to be trifled with, and can scarce be understood. Perhaps it would have been your life fate would have taken, in place of hers."

Janus seemed about to speak against this, but calmed himself, knowing the truth in the words.

"And now things continue as they have been set. Though evil the day, perhaps the morn will bring us better tidings..." he continued looking outward to the darkness, thinking intently.

"He's not coming back for a while. Janus, I left him crying over the body of his wife, in the middle of a forest glen. If he comes back at all, it will be a long time before he does," Serge said, thinking on the last words he had exchanged with Crono.

But Janus shook his head, smiling.

"Crono will return," he said, looking back at Serge. "His spirit is far stronger than you seem to account him. Indomitable and mighty, even after so great an injury. For you have never seen him at his greatest, as he was when we destroyed the great demon Lavos. In that hour most would have thought him like to some god of old, such was his might and glory. I am glad that in the days that come now I shall be accounted his friend, and not enemy."

"But you think he's coming back soon?" Serge asked skeptically. All that he had seen of Crono seemed to show that it would be long before he would return to captain them.

Janus laughed grimly, fingering the faint trace of a scar across his face.

"Do you see this, Serge? This was my reward for thinking him defeated long ago when I was his bitter foe. Oh, so little you know of him, Serge. Even as you left him his decisions were made, and most difficult it would be now for anyone to sway the counsel of his mind in this matter. I judge that he shall now bring such a war upon the lands as has not been seen since the ages of Rome's conquests a thousand years ago."

"You really think that he'll start a thing like that?" Serge asked disbelieving that his friend who at the first had seemed so calm and friendly could bring an entire nation to open bloody war, and seek to command its people.

"What might be called a war in these latter days, yes," Janus replied.

"Moreover, he already has, Serge," Schala broke in, rising and wandering out to into the yard, casting an absent gaze East across the lands shrouded in all veiling night, "The mission he had bidden me and Janus undertake is accomplished. For now the people are rising up in the East of Guardia. The fishing hamlets and fortress towns at the seaside are alerted. There is no matter of questions concerning what will follow. War is a surety."

Serge now stood, finally seeing how far things had come in this one short week. He was finding it a little disconcerting that he was now irrevocably drawn into this conflict; he could not leave anymore.

"When?" he asked, his mind now rallying itself to firm resolution to this course laid out by Crono.

"Even as we left the East the people were gathering. Tomorrow they will begin to meet, on the fields of Truce, ten miles west of here."

"But, how will we tell Crono? Will he come back here tonight?"

Janus shook his head.

"No, he will not return this night. Tomorrow we will see him again, I deem. Though not here, and not in secret as his habit as been so far. Do you remember what he spoke to me ere I set out? He told me that Truce itself he could rally on his own. That is where we shall find him on the morrow."

The next day began as grim as could be. The clouds hung low and grey, ever threatening to rain, as if in grief themselves. Twice in the morning the three abandoned the safety of the house and wandered the streets of Truce. Finding no sign of Crono either time, they returned somewhat disheartened. Even so Schala urged them to wait before despairing of Crono's return. Morning gave way to midday. The sun finally broke from between the clouds, and the threat of rain fled.

And still they saw no sign of their friend.

The sun began the second part of its Westerly march, and with the afternoon came a full clearing of the sky. Twice more the three crept out and sought for some sign of Crono. But the afternoon was as fruitless as the morning had been. As the sun came nearer the horizon, even Schala began to grow concerned, thinking that perhaps Crono would not come.

"I had not expected things to come to such an end," Schala confided to Serge as she glanced out the window. "I had thought this to be but a beginning, a start to trying times."

She sauntered away from the window.

"Perhaps he is simply biding his time, or else still grieving," she said thoughtfully and hopefully.

"Maybe," Serge said. "I think we're expecting too much of him. Janus, I know you said that he'd be back today, but I really think that we have to give him more time."

Janus shook his head.

"He will come today, or he will never come," he stated, rising from where he sat.

Igrayne brought a cup of tea to Schala, who gratefully took it.

"Thank you," she murmured, taking a small taste of the drink. "I think we should go out one more time before nightfall," she said, glancing out the window.

"I don't think he's coming, Kid," Serge said, leaning against the wall. "His wife just died. Right in front of his eyes. It very nearly killed him," he shook his head, "It even upset me," he added.

"I'm going anyway," Schala said. "You coming, Serge? Janus?" she asked, glancing about.

"Sure, whatever," Serge said, throwing himself away from the wall. He would be trapped in the house all night, after all.

"Janus?" Schala asked of her brother, who had sat down once again.

He shook his head, and showed the hint of a scowl.

"I shall stay. I am finding little use in this incessant hoping. If he comes, very well. If not, there is nothing we can do. If I stay or go is of little consequence."

The day was near spent as they stepped out the door. It had been a grim day of dashed hopes, one such as even a tranquil dusk could not shake. But the people, walking the streets as if it were any other day, were unaware that their princess, their hero, lay now dead in a simple grave amidst the trees. A sad thing to see, maybe, for, while the look of anger and resentment for their oppressors was plain in the eyes of every man and woman, this was a strong willed people and it was merely a reason and kindling fire to hope in better days that would be assured once Porre had been driven away. A hope that had suddenly become far dimmer, though they did not know it.

"Pardon me, my lady," a man said, halting them as they crossed the main square. "Do you know what news comes from the East?"

She turned sharply on him, her eyes glinting warily. A man of Guardia, but any might be a traitor, she knew.

"I hear some," she said. "I hear of dissent, and anger. Why do you ask?"

"Only because I have family in the East, and I was told that some great lords had come among us, proclaiming that rebellion was near at hand. And that our King would lead us to salvation in the coming days."

She relented her guard somewhat at these plainly spoken words.

"Fate is a coiled snake waiting to strike," she said. "At one end it seems fair enough, but venom and death lie at the other. And it can turn even as quickly. Your king will return, and so prepare for war. But I counsel you if you are wise to heed me and not welcome such days, for they might bring more of tears than joy."

She stepped quickly away, not affording the man any reply, if he could even give any to such cryptically spoken words. She had mingled hope with advice true though bitter.

"The people are waiting," Serge said to her. "Even without Crono, they know what's coming."

"And yet if he does not come, he will have sealed their death," she answered faintly, as if half to herself.

"Do you realise, Serge," she continued, "the graveness of this thing now begun? If they rise up, and he does not lead them, they will be doomed to ruin, for Porre will mercilessly crush this rebellion and burn Guardia to ashes."

"But then you can lead them, Schala," Serge answered. "If Crono doesn't come back, you can be their leader. You're a queen, after all."

She shook her head.

"A princess, Serge; only the fallen princess of a fallen land. I, lead Guardia? Maybe I could, and yet then it might be Porre that would then be mercilessly burned. I do not trust my own zeal to be restrained, if I would seek to command so many."

A strange thing for her to say, Serge thought at once. The girl he had known was certainly rash, but Schala was the embodiment of restraint and caution, and he wondered at her words. He might have asked her but, on a sudden, in the midst of the crowded square, someone shouted aloud. A figure had appeared on the roof of the tallest building, its cape billowing in the wind. A sword was in its hand, and a dark cape bound about its neck.

It was Crono, standing proud and tall. He flourished his sword and lifted the blade high above his head.

"People of Truce, children of Guardia!" he cried out. Every head turned to look at him. His gaze swept over them from on high, and a smile was on his lips. To them they were not only his subjects, but his countrymen; his brothers and sisters.

"To you today I bring grim tidings. I have lost my wife, but in this my pain is not wholly my own. With her death you have lost both your princess and queen, stricken down by the venomed arrow of a Porre soldier."

People murmured amongst themselves, understanding suddenly who this was, and grieving over the death of Marle. She had always acted a commoner in their midst, and had ever championed their causes before her father, the last king. Crono continued, seeing that with his words he had their attention in thrall.

"It has been fifteen long years since our beloved land fell to the armies of Porre. Too long have I waited to set things right. I shall no longer."

From a patrol guard a shot rang out and struck the wood at Crono's side. Yet he stood undaunted, his voice not faltering. It still rang loud and clear in the ears of the people.

"Her death, and the death of every one of our kinsmen to fall at the hands of Porre must be, and will most certainly be, avenged! As your prince I vow that whatsoever may follow I shall not rest till the last of these accursed soldiers have been driven from the lands of our home! Not till the black dragon flies once more from the tower of Guardia!"

Two more shots rang out, the splintering wood flying up around him. Yet still unmoved he stood, and appeared to his people as a hero, mighty and warlike. Standing on high, his figure silhouetted in the rising sun with his sword blazing golden in his raised hands and defying the weapons of his enemies, he seemed as an immortal who could not be slain, wielding great power.

"I call now to my banners and service all who would hearken to my cry. Who among you will aid me in this!?"

A great cry rang out from all the people, and the lone soldiers whose weapons had fired at Crono dared not stay them out of mortal fear. Too long had the people suffered; his words were like fire in their hearts, and they set their anger ablaze.

4

Long Crono stood there, the sun blazing golden-red behind him. When it finally set Crono came down from the building and met with his people. Before he even reached the ground they were around him, greeting him joyously and crying out to him, asking him if their day of freedom was at long last near. Of this he assured them, but the day was already old, and ere long the assembly had dispersed. They all knew, peasant and knight alike, that rest and strength was what was needed now.

And the next day was a day to be remembered, indeed.

"The twentieth of October, by the reckoning of our calender," Crono said with a smile, glancing over at Serge. "A day that we will all remember, if we should live through these dark weeks that are now coming. The day that the peasants of the small land of Guardia gathered in force to challenge the might of the great empire of Porre."

It was a certainly a grand sight to see. The rallying of Guardia had been more swift than any could have foreseen. And greater, as well. From Truce and a hundred other towns and villages they had come: peasants, farmers, craftsman and old knights. An army six thousand strong. And they were all gathered in a single plain, the fields that lay upon the eaves of the great Wood of Guardia, West of Truce by ten miles.

"Such a force this land has not seen since the Great War with the Sorcerer, over four hundred years ago," Crono said with a glance about him.

The four of them strode across the plain, watching the people set up camp. It thrilled Serge's heart to see the zeal possessed by this people, and the willingness with which they followed Crono. Many tents were already raised, and makeshift stables and armouries could be seen aplenty. And, though war was now undoubtedly approaching, the mood of the people was unmistakably cheerful. Ever they heard the glad whispers of the people, joyously telling each other in hopeful voices that ere winter Guardia would be theirs again. And Crono they regarded as both a King and Hero alike.

As he passed through the gathered crowd of people, many rushed up to greet him, anxious to meet their new lord in person. These Crono greeted warmly, once again assuring them of his vow to restore Guardia. Indeed, the people were on his side, and his words were as law to them who had yearned fifteen years for their king.

Most were villagers, peasants from the surrounding countryside, and so unarmed for war. But scattered among these was the odd old warrior, or youth dressed in a father's armour. Some of these called out to Crono, for many he had known years before. One or two he greeted especially, being friends of his of old. He paused before one such warrior, a scarred knight in steel armour tarnished with age. The hair that fell long from his head was white with years, yet despite his old age he still had the noble and strong bearing of a great knight, subdued little even so late in life. His sword, though not nearly a peer of Crono's, was a mighty, ancient looking weapon with a short cross and a broad blade.

"Hadrian? Lord Hadrian?" Crono said in surprise, for he had not expected to see him.

"Yes indeed, my Lord Crono, or should I say, my Lord Frey?" he said with the hint of a laugh, bowing to one knee. Rising again he smiled. "Nay, you have ever despised that name, as I well remember. You might treat it with more respect; it is an ancient name, and if you are wise you would not spurn such a gift. No matter; I will call you what you will. I shall not reproach my Lord for such trivial things on the edge of war. But it makes me glad that you still remember an old warrior such as myself. We have not seen each other in many a year."

"No, not since those early days of our resistance did we fight along side each other. How long has it been now? Fifteen years?"

"Nearly. A month less such a space. And it is a joy for my old eyes to see thee again, in such mighty company, moreover. You must be thankful for their aid."

"As I shall be for yours! Who else is with you? Are Lord Balan and Sir Balyn and the other knights of my table come as well? They were mighty and fearless warriors in their day. They would have taken an entire legion alone, had they been commanded to."

But at the mention of their names a cloud fell over Hadrian's face.

"No, they have not come. Nor shall they ever. You forget what long years have passed since those days. The brothers Balan and Balyn are dead nigh on two years now, stricken by the hand of old age. And so it is with many of the others: with Lot, and with Launceor, Lord of the Shorelands; their beards were grey long before mine. And Albert of the Wold; wishing rather to die by the sword than age I have heard it said he ambushed a Porre company alone. Two men fell to his blade ere he himself was slain. And even I now decay and feel my death near."

"Are none of the great knights yet living then? What of Sir Bors, or Sir Bedivere?"

Hadrian shook his head as Crono spoke.

"Of the old lords, I am the last. You have heard of none of this?"

"No," Crono said. "Alas, I hid you all too well. I myself do not know where many of my old company are hidden, and of most I have heard little. A brigands ears are at needs sharp, but not nearly enough so, it seems. I can only hope that they hear of my summons now. Yet that is ill news of Balan and the others for they, as you will be, should have been my captains in this war. Too long did I wait, I see."

"Perhaps, but patience also yields benefits; it is near always more laudable than rash and unthoughtful acts. Ah, a word from the old and fading, for I see our generation has now passed. Yours leads now, with better skill then we did in our time, I pray. The waning life of Guardia depends on that hope. I am one of the last of the old Guardia knighthood that can still fight, though with what skill, I know not. But I shall accomplish what I can before I breathe my last, and I will not yield my life gently."

Crono smiled in memory of some old battle.

"Never for an instant would I have thought otherwise of you. But what of the others? The old knights of Guardia, you say, have passed. But what of the younger? The squires and such that fled with our company before I scattered us into hiding? Surely they live yet. Some I have even seen through the years."

"Cunning Sir Amalek and my own son have ridden with me. Both now are full grown in strength, and of your age. Of the others, I have heard little. Or, shall I say, little good. The last I heard, near on six months ago now, was that they were driven into the Dire Woods..."

"What is this?" Crono rasped, startled by this unexpected news. "That is news I had not heard nor looked for. So they gathered together again, then, despite my commands to await me?"

"Do not fault them now. Fifteen years is long, and patience is scarce in the young. I remember you in your youth. Reckless, foolish, hot-headed. Heedless of advice and wisdom, full of pride over your great deeds. It does not surprise me that the others banded together again, having tired of waiting. Perhaps they sought to find glory for themselves, as you found."

"I did not seek for glory in any of my deeds, nor for fame! I was compelled by circumstance and fate. As for those fools," he paused, calming his heated words, "no, I will not speak ill of them now, for it is my fault as it is theirs. So fate deals me another hard stroke; surely they have perished."

He bowed his head sadly.

"I did not say so with certainty," the knight replied. "Their fate has been unknown now for months is all I said. But, verily, those woods are not friendly. Dark rumours abound about them. Some say mystics prowl the darkness under the trees. Others maintain ghosts hold their abode there. It is said that the ruins of a great ancient fortress lie hidden in those dark vales, but none have laid eyes upon it for a thousand years."

"Yes, Tel-Tintagel, the hidden fortress of shadows. Built, it is said, by the hands of Zeal craftsman in ancient times; the last reminder of a once incomparable glory. But not a place to be lightly found, if it even is more than legend. I searched for it myself once, but if enchantments indeed hide it, they beguiled even me. I had hoped to find a store of weapons to arm our people. But that entire region of woods is haunted. If not by the dead, then by some dark of the living. I do not count much on any band surviving long in those shades. So we shall make do without the young knights, though I grieve for their loss; they will be sorely missed on the field. Some were even my own friends, and I had hoped to speak again with them."

"But they are not the only ones we have lost. I have heard of the death of princess Nadia."

A shadow of grief passed suddenly across Crono's face.

"I do not wish to dwell too deeply on the past, most especially not now. I take some comfort in your company, my friend, and that of those who travel with me. But it does not quell the tears of my heart. And I fear that even should Guardia be victorious, I shall not be king."

"If that is how you are minded, then I think you are wise in saying that you should not speak of this now," he paused, and looked past Crono. "Who is this? He appears to be a mighty lord!"

Crono turned. Janus had walked up silently behind him.

"Who is the aged knight?" he asked, in a tone of slight mockery. Crono dismissed it, and replied for Hadrian with as much praise as he could make evident in his voice.

"Sir Hadrian, and nowhere could one find a nobler knight. Not even in the courts of Zeal."

"That, I doubt..." Janus scowled, but he nodded ever so slightly in affirmation, and Hadrian bowed deeply, as though to a king.

"He was once the knight errant of the royal court, but in the days following the fall of our land he, along with Marle and myself, lead a band of warriors against Porre. Yet I disbanded them, for we were hunted mercilessly, and two could hide more easily. But now I hear, to my sorrow, that many have not survived these long years...all the more reason I welcome your aid, Janus."

"Janus?! That name I know. Though it chills me with dread, it hearkens of a power of ancientry beyond my knowledge," Hadrian said, with awe. "Is that truly your name, lord?"

Janus nodded, a slight pride showing on his face for being so respected by someone, at the least.

"It is an honour to stand before you, my Lord Janus. You, a sorcerer prince of Zeal. Such help is indeed most welcome! And who may this be?" he asked, seeing Serge. "I do not recognize him from the tales. Unless my eyes deceive me, he is from the south-west."

He studied Serge for a moment.

"He is a mystery to my wisdom," Lord Hadrian said at last. "He appears to be a child, yet his eyes betray the sharp glance of a warrior."

Serge was about to speak, and name himself, but Crono did so first.

"Truly, you do not know him; he is Serge of El Nido. Yet the deeds he has wrought, though remembered in no tale nor song, are greater than that of near any other, even greater than my own. Moreover, he is the wielder and master of the holy sword Masamune."

"The Masamune?" Hadrian gasped, glancing in awe to the weapon that Serge held. "That is the sword of heroes? Not even I in my youth would dare to handle it, nor has any champion in nearly a hundred years! And I had thought it lost to infernal Porre."

Serge handed the hilt into Hadrian's hands. The old man took it up graciously, reverence upon his face.

"It is changed since I saw it last," Hadrian said, running his fingers over the blade. "Then it was as a double edged greatsword. So it would seem that the old legends told of this blade are indeed true, then. That its power is not held in its forged shape, and that the truth of its being is not to be found in this world."

He handed the weapon back into Serge's grip.

"If the Masamune has returned to fight for Guardia, then there is yet hope. Never while our heroes have held that blade has Guardia failed to have the victory."

With a low bow of farewell, Hadrian stepped backward into the crowd.

As the knight bade Crono farewell, Serge too excused himself from his friend's company. Schala herself had already wandered off, and he was more eager to follow her than the others.

As Serge left, Crono turned to Janus who continued to walk beside him, walking amidst the various craftsman and the like, preparing their country for war.

"So, what do you think, my old friend? Is this not more than we had ever hoped for?"

Janus frowned, looking over the gathered people sharply.

"This, Crono, is a group of children in matters of war, no more. Not one in ten has ever seen a battle, or even wielded a weapon. And the few that have skill in such things are well beyond their best years, as that knight of yours. But yes, I concede it is impressive, after a fashion. Their loyalty is unyielding. They will follow you to the death, in the scant hope that their freedom will be restored. I have never seen such love and devotion in a people for a king, not even among the Mystics when I ruled them. All the more reason you cannot fail them in this trust."

Crono shook his head sternly.

"I will not, unless death should take me. I swore to Marle's grave that I would find no rest till Guardia is remade. And so not think lightly of my land. Guardia is far stronger than you know, Janus. Woe unto those who stir up its wrath. Surely you do not think we were defeated a decade ago?"

"If not defeated, what then? Certainly you have not been waiting idly!"

"Indeed, yes! Waiting, but not idle! As I told Serge before we arrived in my land, the people and warriors of Guardia have been waiting patiently at my command. In those days when Porre first struck there was no time to form our army, for if we had we could have ended this then. But time was short, and the throne was overthrown. We were scattered. What men were under my command I sent back to their homes, for I knew that in some day yet to come their strength would be needed united. And ever since Porre has been watching us with an uneasy eye. Guardia has always been a nation of warriors. For a thousand years we were unconquered: not might nor sorcery could master us. Even you, with your legions of mystics, could not wholly overcome us. Not without reason is our land named what it is, for we are the last remnant of those who live by the old ways and seek to preserve peace without conquest. This is in the people's hearts and blood, even if they do not know it themselves."

"But little can they do," Janus said, "for they have no weapons of worth, nor any armour. I fear that this war of yours will go ill, even if the valour of your people is as great as you say."

Crono smiled craftily.

"You underestimate me, Janus. Just as I have not been idle, neither have been the blacksmiths of Guardia. For every day and night for fifteen years have the forges of our land toiled ceaselessly in preparation for this day! Hidden from the eyes of Porre we have a store as shall rival any Porre has here. Soon, from every secret smithy, shall such a horde of weapons and armour be gathered as has not been seen in Guardia in half a millennium! No one shall lack either sword or helm."

Janus, though he tried to hide his surprise, was astounded.

"Now that is more welcome news. And you did not care to speak of it earlier to me?"

Crono shrugged.

"Good tiding unlooked for are all the more joyous."

Here, now, they came through to the small encampment of people that, by the colours that flew from the tents, seemed to be from the east-lands. The men there were forging firing arrows at the trees or testing their blade-skill against one another. But even as Janus had so lately said, they were ill-suited to such things, and few showed any true skill in the using of their weapons, unless it was the hunters and their swift-shot and unerring arrows. As they walked by, those that saw them turned and bowed, hailing him king and lord of Guardia (though at this Crono turned aside, not wishing to accept such titles of rank.) All of a sudden, one of those that stood about turned at their approach, and strode up to meet them.

"A child of the east-lands," Janus muttered. "If my memory serves me, he was most eager to meet his king when I spoke of your return in his village. Do you know him?"

"No, I have never seen him before. Perhaps a son of one I served with," Crono replied.

Crono sighed and whispered to Janus, making certain no one else overheard.

"So he is another of these overzealous king's men? I despise being named something I am not. I am only one man, and was once a simple boy of Truce; how different am I than they? Once I was prideful of my victories, now I tire of them." He looked towards the approaching one with a slight sigh. Janus clapped him on the back and laughed heartily.

"Enjoy it while you can, my friend. Such things end all too soon."

The child had now come to before them. He was indeed one of the youngest that Crono saw gathered in the square, though his youthful face seemed to show a certain steadfastness and vigour that was well beyond his years. His long golden hair fell back unrestrained over his shoulders. He was dressed in the same form of clothes that Crono had been fond of in his younger years, and were common among the youth in Guardia: loose fitting pants and shirt, and a light tunic held fast with a simple belt, all in simple shades of grey and brown. Over his back a long weapon, wrapped in travel cloths, was slung.

He halted before Crono and knelt deeply before him.

"Lord Frey, my master, I am at your service. My life and death are at your command."

Crono shook his head at this sincere display of respect, dismissing such fervent devotion.

"Stand up, child . Whatever may be told of me, I am not your king."

The boy instantly did as commanded, standing up straight-backed before Crono.

"But you are my king, are you not? You are Lord Frey, hero of and heir to Guardia."

"Heir yes, but not king. I am a prince, and that only because I must be. If you wish to serve me, do not call me by my knight's name. I would that you not use it. I am Crono to all that would know me. And you are?"

The boy smiled proudly.

"Sigurd, son of Sigmund the fisherman. I hail from the eastern woods that border on the sea, from the village of Kael."

Crono now saw him standing, for the first time taking note of him in detail. His face was sharp and his eyes keen, burning with the spirited flame of youth. Their hue was a deep shimmering green, in seeming stark contrast to his drab clothes. And to Crono's wonder, he seemed both strong and sure for one so young; almost a prince like valiance was in his face.

Crono nodded in reply to Sigurd.

"Yes, I know the area..." he muttered, his words disappearing in thought.

The boy frowned, seeing this sudden shift in mood.

"Is something amiss, my Lord? Have I offended you?"

Crono started out of his thoughts.

"My apologies, not in the least. You simply remind me much of myself when I was young and that brought reminisces to my mind."

Sigurd appeared surprised by this, a slight pride shining in his eyes at these words.

"That is too kind a thing to say, my lord. I only hope to serve you well, with all my strength as my duty and servitude demands."

Crono smiled at these words of devotion, though inwardly it saddened him somewhat to see someone so young prepared to face war.

"I am sure you will. But I ask you: are you ready? Can you stand before the terror that is war and not falter? How old are you?"

"Sixteen, my Lord Crono," Sigurd replied carefully, nearly forgetting Crono's demand to use his common name.

Crono frowned somewhat with a curious eye, then sighed.

"Sixteen years? And you wish to go into battle? To perhaps die before days of even your childhood are fully spent? Again I ask, do you think yourself ready? Are you not afraid?"

The boy smiled grimly.

"No, I am most certainly not ready," he paused, motioning his hands about at the gathered people. "But who of us is? And as for fear, such things I should not dread: death comes when it will to any man, and it is unavailing to flee destiny. I do my best to deny such fear mastery of my heart. And it is my duty to serve you, is it not? I may be young, but I can fight. Therefore I must use whatever skills and power I possess in your service. Such is my obligation as your subject."

Janus, who had been mostly disinterested in the talk, and had taking to murmuring some archaic verse to himself under his breath, glanced up sharply.

"Can you really?" he laughed. "You mean to tell me that a mere child like yourself can even lift a true weapon, let alone use it with anything that might be called akin to skill?"

The boy, however, was not daunted by the menacing words of mockery, and managed to retain an unwavering countenance.

"My Lord, I have often trained with a blade at my father's teaching, and have on occasion gone to Medina of the Mystics..."

Crono on Sigurd with new interest on hearing that this boy had visited Medina. He himself had gone there once, and had found no pleasant welcome. It was a perilous place for any human, for the Mystics hated those of alien race. To travel there, most especially for one so young, was nearly unheard of. This young Sigurd had much skill. Indeed, as Crono had noted earlier, a sense of uncommon valour seemed to surround him.

"And who is your father, if I may ask again?"

The boy smiled proudly once more.

"A loyal servant of Guardia, who never abandoned hope in your promised return. He is master Sigmund of the village of Kael. Often he has told me the legends of your adventures..."

"Curses," Crono muttered under his breath. "I did not know that my exploits as a child were common tales."

"They are most worthy of retelling, as long as some should live that remember them," Sigurd replied in all earnestness. "So my father says."

"About your family, then. You have said you live in the East?" Crono asked.

"Yes, all my life. My family are through many generations fisherfolk by the astern seashore, but my father was once in his youth a squire in the service of Guardia, and fought when Porre came upon us. Of him I learned the ways of the sword."

Crono once again looked at him in surprise.

"Swordcraft? You can wield a sword?"

"Yes indeed," Sigurd replied proudly, knowing full well how uncommon such a thing was among the peasantry.

"You possess one, then? An heirloom, perhaps?" Crono asked with sudden interest.

But no, Crono thought, it would not be anything so grand. A small notched blade, in all certainty, that had been scavenged during the Fall. A true greatsword such as he himself carried was a rare thing, for they were of surpassing value, and it was seldom that anyone but knights and lords carried them.

"Yes," Sigurd replied, his eyes showing immense pride. "It is my father's great treasure, and was given to me by him on my twelfth birthday. He told me to guard it with my life, for it would do the same for me."

He unslung the wrapped weapon that hung across his back. He deftly undid the bindings, dropping the cloth. The weapon that was revealed was not the tarnished and beaten sword that Crono had expected to see. Its unnotched blade shone purest silver, not the hint of any scar upon the metal, and the crossguard was a work of remarkable craftsmanship. The steel, if steel it was, was woven in skilful curves that seemed alike to the arms of some plant. Not any smith in Guardia, no, the entire world, could have hoped to craft a weapon such as that.

"That," Janus said, but his voice faltered, and only slowly did he regain mastery of his voice.

"That is of Zeal," he murmured to Crono, "unless some great smith has been born in these last twelve thousand years that I have not heard of."

Crono too was shocked, shaken most greatly, yet tried to hide it to the best of his ability.

"Yes, of course," he replied, taking another glance at the weapon as if thinking that it was but an illusion of memory. But the blade was as real as all others.

"That, Janus, is a Star Sword of Zeal."

"Precisely!" Janus replied. "But how did he find it? All of those weapons perished with my ancient land!"

Crono shook his head.

"Not all, Janus, not all. And it is not outside possibility that some have been resurrected in these twelve millennia. And yet..."

He turned once more to Sigurd, who was bewildered as to the cause of their sudden astonishment. He turned the blade about in his hands, seeing well that it was this that was the cause of their earnest discussion.

"How did that sword come to you?" asked Crono, his voice still betraying his wonder.

The boy frowned, worry crossing his brow.

"From my father. Where he got it, I do not know. Is something amiss? Is it known to you?"

"Yes, it certainly is. Do you know what it is you hold?" Crono asked, running his fingers along the expertly forged metal.

The boy looked at his weapon, contemplating it for a moment in an attempt to see what was so wondrous about it.

"It is well forged, I can see, but beyond its craftsmanship what is its value? Is it not merely a sword?" he questioned, his eyes betraying his uncertainty.

Crono laughed.

"Ha! Merely a sword? You speak of that as if it were the common weapon of some brigand or captain! That which you hold in your hands is the work of downfallen Zeal, and is beyond the worth of a thousand gems. Let me see it, I beg of you."

"Of course my Lord..." Sigurd said, amazed.

He handed the hilt to Crono who took it up with the deft skill of a master of weapons. And yet it seemed that he knew the sword somewhat, for it looked to weigh no more than a branch in his grip.

Taking it under careful study he stared long at the blade, examining the intricate workmanship closely. Finally he looked up, a knowing smile on his face, and nodded to Janus.

"It is a Star Sword, Janus," he said with a nod.

"Impossible," Janus said awestruck. "That would mean it has lasted twelve thousand years in this world. That would make it the oldest work of men's hands yet existing, save only the Masamune itself."

Crono nodded.

"And a most powerful sword at that," he said, returning to look at Sigurd.

"My friend," he said to him, "these letters," he ran his finger over markings that ran the length of the blade, "do you know what it is they say?"

Sigurd shook his head.

"No, they are some strange script. They are neither Latin nor Greek, nor any other known form. Not even the master scholars in Stoneshield could decipher them."

"I would not think so. But a few there are in all the world that can yet read this writing, for it is of Zeal. I myself can barely read it, for it is very ancient. This says: Saer il es lamir il Aster, 'Sword of Heaven's Light'. Therefore this is indeed a Star Sword, forged by the swordsmiths of Zeal twelve thousand years ago. And this here," he pointed added to another length of script that was engraved crossways upon the guard, "reads, if I'm not mistaken, its name. Named after a star, as it is said those weapons all were. Meredter, in the tongue of Zeal; that is Rigel to us. One of the brightest of the stars of the night sky. Guard this weapon, Sigurd, guard it with your life even as your father said. For there are none now like this, and it is an equal to my own. Perhaps it is even greater. Its blade is of true-silver and woven with unbreakable spells of ruin to all foes and darkness."

He returned the sword to Sigurd, who clasped it in his hands with great pride, covering its shining metal with the cloth once again.

"And may it guard you, when the time comes. Do you still wish to face battle?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"So be it," Crono said, yielding to the boy's will. "May your devotion be rewarded justly."

Janus stepped forward, a scowl on his face.

"Crono, you cannot even think to do this. That is a Star Sword! Its worth alone would ransom a kingdom. You are allowing a common child to wield it?"

"Is it a king's place to rob his subjects?" Crono replied, returning Janus' eyes with a harsh look of his own.

Janus narrowed his eyes at him, searching Crono's countenance.

"You're not telling me everything," he said, sensing a strange tone in his friend's words.

"This is not for now, Janus. We will speak of this later," Crono said resolutely, a harsh edge to his voice.

"That _boy _is unworthy of such a weapon," Janus bit back with certain disdain. "It should be gifted to one who can use it as it should! Not without reason were only the greatest captains of Zeal granted those weapons. And here it is to be wielded by a peasant child?"

Sigurd stood watching this argument uncertainly, even he affrighted to see two great captains so ill tempered with each other. Crono looked over at him.

"Are you worthy of it? What say you, Sigurd son of Sigmund? What does your inmost being say to this? Can you wield a Sword of Power, such as was once carried by the swordmasters of the ancient world?"

The boy stood silent for a moment, a disquiet in his eyes. It was not a light question to be asked so, especially not from a hero to a common peasant. But Sigurd had great will for, in defiance of the disdainful look that Janus surveyed him with, he stood tall, his voice sure.

"Yes, I shall. I shall do my utmost to be worthy of such a weapon, and mindful of those who held it before me."

Crono nodded slightly with a smile, pleased.

"Then that is all that needs be said, Janus," Crono said.

"But Crono, this is foolishness." Janus growled, glancing between Sigurd and Crono. Something was amiss about this, his wizard's instincts told him. But he could not place it any more than one can capture smoke in one's palm.

Crono glanced him an angry look.

"Did not I use such weapons when I was his age? I learned to be worthy of them. Such magical blades draw their power from the wills of their masters. And surely will is not bounded by age."

He turned once again to Sigurd.

"The power of this weapon comes from your deepest wishes; wield it with this in mind, and hold to virtue and faith. I must leave now, for I have a war to plan. But come see me before the battle, and then we shall speak more. Perhaps we can see about finding you a scabbard fit for such a weapon. Until then, farewell, and take care."

He bowed goodbye to Sigurd, who knelt in reply and spun, returning to the crowd from where he had come.

Crono sighed as he watched him leave, shaking his head.

"And whatever was that about!?" Janus demanded angrily.

"About?" Crono taunted, seeing well what Janus wondered about and that his anger was rising.

"He's a mere boy, and you let him keep that sword? It is of greater value than a king's hoard! If anyone should claim it, it should be I, last prince of Zeal!"

Crono looked at him, staring undaunted into his black eyes.

"No, Janus, that sword does not belong to you. You were correct when you said that the Star Swords now lie at the bottom of the sea. That is, all but one. In truth, though I did not desire to mention it before the child, it is mine. Do you not remember it? Or has the time been so long to you? It is the very same I took from the Ocean Palace before it was destroyed, and wielded for a short while. And could you not too read the name, Rigel? So there can be no mistaking it. But I lost it many years ago, in the days when Porre overran Guardia...and..." he paused, his words trailing slowly as if wondering his thoughts out loud, "...this is the first I have seen it since then. I must admit, it startled me greatly, to see my old sword in such a way, and in the hands of a child nonetheless."

"And you trust him with it? I will void my claim on it as it is yours, but if so, take what is rightfully your possession!"

"If it is mine, then I choose to gift it to him, as reward for his loyalty to me and his land. And I wielded it at the same age, did I not? What need have I for it now? Though something gnaws at me strangely, and I wonder..."

"What?" Janus asked curiously.

"Never mind..." Crono muttered. He had not intended to speak his last words for anyone to hear.

Janus shook his head, infuriated.

"Now I am certain you are hiding something from me. What!"

"Do not dwell on it, Janus! These days are for wars, not riddles," Crono cried at Janus, who frowned, taken aback by Crono's sudden and unusual vehemence towards him.

And with that Crono walked heavily away from Janus.

"Something is strange," Janus muttered to Schala and Serge when he found them.

"He's been strange since Marle died," Serge said.

"No, this is something else. A mystery of a sword, I think," Janus replied, half in thought. He slowly recounted the meeting with the child Sigurd.

When he finished Schala too frowned.

"I cannot decipher why this sword seems to be such a great thing to Crono. Nor yet this Sigurd. I wonder at all these happenings. I do not sense foreboding, nor any dark premonition. Serge?"

Serge shook his head.

"I haven't had any visions since that one a week ago before we went through the woods," he said.

Schala shook her head.

"Ah, as for that. That one yet worries me."

"Why?" Serge questioned, finding himself suddenly disquieted.

"Because," Schala replied, "as I told you then, it seemed to me that whatever you saw was from some time far in our future. I would not have thought it would be upon us yet, unless I was mistaken."

Serge shivered and looked to the ground. For a moment a shadow of what he had seen crossed his waking eyes. None the clearer, but something whispered. No, his heart told him. It was not Marle. And that chilled his heart.

"It wasn't her, then," he said, looking sharply up.

Schala shook her head.

"I thought not," she muttered. "What is fate conspiring against us now?"

"Against us?" Janus said. "No! It is we, rather, who are weaving our own dooms, if anything."

He cast his arms about.

"Behold! We are upon the brink of war!" he cried loudly. "I do not think that the death of any of us is unlikely."

"Accursed war. It always plays havoc with any foresight," she cursed. "There is too much foreboding. Too much death in the wind."

"I'm not going to think about it," Serge said, knowing that no effort he put into searching his thoughts would avail him to learn any more about the future. "If it's already destined, then it will happen no matter what we do. And if it can be changed...well, we'll do what we can when the time comes."

* * *

**ON THE STARSWORDS**

It is said by Janus that only the greatest of the captains of Zeal held the swords. In saying so he was very correct, for the worth of the weapons was high, indeed. They were crafted by the court smith of Zeal (which, in the time of the Fall, was the famed Melchior of legend), and given to the Field Lord: those that commanded ten thousand, that is an army. In the entire host of Zeal there were ten such armies (and so only ten such leaders), and each army held five legions of two thousand, each captained by a Lord. Furthermore each of these was divided into twenty centuries of one hundred men; these were led by a Knight-Captain. Within these were fellowships of twenty soldiers, led by a single Knight. Overall the entire host was commanded only by the King or Queen, and they themselves ever marched and fought on the battlefield, as was the ancient custom from the time of Ter-Meredior. Such was the ordering of the hosts of Zeal in battle, though by the time of the Ruin not more than one army ever departed from Zeal to war, for so great was their power.

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)


	13. A Sorcerer and a Child

CHAPTER XII

**A SORCERER AND A CHILD

* * *

**

It was bright where he stood. Far too bright for his eyes, so he shielded them with his arm, wondering at where this was that the sun shone so.

He slowly lowered his arm as his eyes took into account the light. Ah, it was a field. A plain of grass, and a small stand of trees was upon a distant crest. As he looked about a wind gently swept across the field, making waves upon the tall grass. It was the same as far as he could see. Surely it was beautiful, but he wondered why he was come to such a place, and from where. He took though, but could not remember where he should be, or even who he was. It was altogether strange.

He glanced up at the sky. But there was something odd in the wind now. It was not as sweet as it had been a moment before, and the blueness of the sky seemed tainted, as though a deep and hidden sickness eternally rotted at it from behind its expanse.

He looked more keenly at the sky. It was certain: the clouds and heavens were somewhat darker than they had been. He returned his eyes to the plain, and saw, to his surprise, that the distant trees were somewhat nearer now, though he could not fathom why this should be. He turned, looking to the south. How it was south, he could not rightly say, but he knew it, as surely as he might know anything else. And, strangely, here it was that he saw the sun; yet it was not a midday sun. It seemed that twilight were falling, for it was sinking towards the trees on the horizon, though with greater speed than should have been.

And then it was that he heard words and cries. They echoed to him from what seemed to be far off valleys and plains out of sight. He could not discern their meaning, however, though he knew them to be calling out to him. Whether it was some other tongue, or some strange means that kept him from understanding, he did not know. The more he attempted to grasp what was being said, the further it slipped from him. But his heart he felt sicken, and he knew by some other sense that the words were of anguish and dark prophecy, and portended a swiftly arising evil.

And so it was for, as the sun descended, failing to behind the trees, a last burning eye of crimson, a wan dusk seemed to shroud the land. The trees withered and died, their trunks turning to cinders and dust that blew away in a chill wind that arose suddenly. The grass too shrivelled and died, the plain becoming a choking field of ash swept with a gasping wind. Barrenness took everything.

And still the sun fell. Only the trees that its light fell upon yet lived, and they sat upon either side of it.

He attempted to cry out, with his voice to stay the sun, and beg it to stay. To warn it that if it should leave, all would be darkness forever and the last of the living things should die. But no words came from his throat, and he watched in horror as the leaves on the trees began to yellow.

Still the sun sank lower. But then he saw a wondrous thing. Even as the sun touched the horizon, and hope failed, a figure appeared. In front of the sun, silhouetted black, it rose up, and the sun halted there, still upon the horizon. In its hand the figure held a sword upraised, as if in final defiance of the darkness. Above his head wheeled two ravens, and he knew them to be the servants of the darkness, croaking in mockery. This was some hero, it dawned upon him. Someone who would fight against the darkness to the end. And for an instant his heart recalled hope.

But now worse befell. Above the sun, seemingly born of the darkness behind, two eyes opened like those of a fearful wraith of night. They burned in menacing hatred of all life they did not rule. And they despised the one who defied the darkness, which was their servant and master. They bent their overwhelming power against the sun, and it shuddered, falling into darkness. The trees died. The figure vanished. And the eyes flamed up in victory whilst great hands of darkness sped from them to envelop all the barren earth in the tyranny of shadows. He heard a last despairing cry, a piercing shriek of final anguish, rise up from the lands, and then all was darkness and silence.

And in the void he heard a laugh. The sickening laugh of evil triumphant.

Serge blinked his blinded eyes as the morning sunlight crept in through the edges of his tent. He sat half up and shook his head to dispel the last phantoms of sleep that clouded his mind. Rising fully he drew in a deep tired breath that hinted of an unrestful sleep. From outside his tent he could hear that nearly the whole camp was already astir. He had slept late, something that he had often done at home, but never yet on this journey. He thought for a moment, in consideration, a stray thought crossing his darkening mind. Was it that he had dreamt again? He could not surely remember, but the thought would not leave him. He closed his eyes, attempting to recapture what it had been, and the thoughts of his mind, as he had awoken. It seemed that a chill wind wrapped tendrils about him as he did so, hinting at a premonition that ran deep, but no more could he discern. He shook his head with a half worry, uncertainty plaguing him.

The flap of the tent was pulled aside and Schala glanced in.

"Finally, Serge, you are awake. If you make this a habit, you're likely to sleep this war through. And that's not why I brought you along on this adventure, I'll have you know."

He frowned, glancing past her to the outdoors. As he had surmised, it was already somewhat late in the morning.

"What time is it?" he wondered aloud, beginning to feel somewhat ashamed that he had not awoken sooner.

She laughed lightly at his uncertainty.

"Ah, only about midday. I came to see you earlier, but you were still asleep. I thought it best to let you be."

"Well, thanks..." Serge muttered. In truth he would have preferred to have been awakened.

Schala shook her head.

"Well, as it is, no harm is done. But it would be best to rise now. When you are ready, come and see me. I wish to speak with you."

Serge nodded and Schala left, closing the tent behind her. Serge stood as much as he might in the small tent, his joints paining him from having slept on the hard ground. The blankets, such as they were, were meant to keep out the cold, not provide comfort in any form or manner.

When he was once more dressed he stepped outside. The camp was more busy than he had thought. Men ran everywhere, tension ran thick through the air, and Serge noted with the hint of a shudder that war was most certainly on the horizon.

As she had requested, he sought out Schala first of all. It was not long before he found her, pacing about with her head bowed in deep thought. As he came up and hailed her she looked up, whatever worry and concern had plagued her passing instantly.

"Morning, Serge," she said in an undeniably merry tone. "I trust you slept well."

"I don't know," he said uncertainly. "Bad dreams and all that."

She looked him over curiously.

"Now that could mean two things, I should think. One dark, the other meaningless. For your well-being, I would counsel you to assume the second."

Serge understood her reasons in saying this and, though not wholly convinced, found himself in agreement. He had been dreaming things of meaning so long, it seemed odd to him to dream something of no consequence.

"So, has Crono been around today?" he asked.

She shook her head emphatically.

"No, nor my brother for that matter. And it is he that worries me more. I know for a certainty that Crono is yet in his tent, but my brother's wanderings are, shall we say, prone to difficulty. But in regards to Crono, he's behaving somewhat oddly, from what I could discern last night."

Serge nodded thoughtfully. He too had noticed his friend's sudden shift in mood, though he had only done so from a distance.

"Yes, I very much wonder what it is." Schala thought out loud. "Ah, probably all of...this." She motioned about her to where people ran this way and that, preparing for the coming war.

"Being responsible for so much, so many, can be trying to the best. Especially for one who has lost his wife."

Serge nodded solemnly in agreement, having seen how that death had afflicted Crono from the first.

"That was very hard on Crono, losing Marle, just like that," he said. "I had only just met her but...I could see she was of like spirit to him. She wasn't easily daunted, not even when she was dying. But I think that that arrow, in a way, killed them both. He hasn't been the same since."

"Yes," Schala agreed, "Only the purpose of restoring Guardia drives him now. All else is forgotten. He speaks of nothing else to us now but of that purpose."

Schala looked about suddenly, as if some thought had crossed her mind.

"Where is my brother?" she asked sharply, as thought on a premonition, "Crono is in his tent, and we are here. But where is Janus? Suddenly I grew anxious. If I were to guess, I would wager that he is causing some trouble somewhere."

Serge shrugged; he, certainly, had not seen the wizard yet this day.

"But I will not concern myself with him now. Rather it is about you that I worry," Schala continued, "I've had little enough chance to talk with you since Marle died as we've been so busy preparing for this infernal war. How does you mind sit in all of this?"

"My mind?" he asked, "What do you mean by that?"

"Crono's mood, Marle's death, and the battles you've faced, Serge. They all conspire to weigh heavily upon your spirit, and I daresay that is one thing that you do not need at this time. You have done much since we reached Guardia. I am only making certain that you are not about to turn mad on me."

Serge smiled at the compassion in her words.

"Now, is this Kid or Schala speaking?"

She smiled.

"A little of both, I believe. It is Kid's mind, but Schala's voice, as it is most often for me."

"Well, I'm fine. But things are happening kind of quickly for my liking."

Schala nodded in agreement.

"You do your best, I can see, and what can one do, but their best? I have seen this world, felt its ways..."

Understanding of her words trailed off as Serge's own thoughts took hold of him. Schala seemed so confident in herself, and he wished that he too could be so sure of things. He wasn't even sure the war they were about to begin was a just one.

But did it matter? If he was not on one side, he was on the other and, of the two, he knew Guardia's was the better. But it did not quell the lingering doubts that gnawed at his conscience. true greatness is not in destruction, but in healing...; those words, spoken to him what now seemed to be ago, returned to him. Yet how to heal the hurts of Guardia without dealing harshly with its enemies? Things had been far more certain to him when he had gone up against the shadow of Lavos...

"Serge?" Schala wondered, pausing from her speaking. Serge started, having forgotten her at his side.

"You are doubting, then? Ah, you are. I can see it in your eyes."

Serge looked at her, surprised at how swiftly and truly she had guessed his thoughts.

"And you don't think that my mind harries me in a similar manner?" she said "I wager even Crono is. There is much to be both gained and lost in the coming days. And, whichever way this may end, many people will certainly perish. This is worth contemplating."

Sorrow crossed her features.

"The sad truth is that I had hoped that such times were at an end, with the destruction of the enemy Lavos. But it seems that mankind is just as flawed as he was, and we can never fully banish evil from our own hearts, only hide it for a while. Our wills are our own enemies, more surely than that ancient one that came from the stars ever was."

"Now don't you go becoming a philosopher on me, Kid," Serge said with a laugh in his voice.

"Sorry," she answered shortly, "it is only that, to let you know, some part of me still remembers Lavos, clear as a waking thought: the unfathomable hate and sadness that that creature bore. I can still feel it at times as these, hiding like a shadow in my mind. And I wonder: if we are so like that evil, is mankind then destined for such an end as well. For surely he was not always so. What destiny drove him to such darkness? Ah, but don't worry yourself my friend. Be assured that your side is just, if any can be in this flawed world."

"But I had that kind of confidence, once," Serge muttered sullenly, "when I fought FATE, and the dragons; then I didn't have any doubts about my rightness. I saw my enemy, and there wasn't any question about what needed to be done. But now, Kid..."

"Ah, dear Serge, my friend, I understand you better than you might know. You're growing up and learning wisdom, and questioning that which once seemed clear," she said with a shake of her head. "It is inevitable, and for the best, for in time your doubts will cease and your conviction will return, and you will be stronger than ever before, having wisdom to guide you and temper your power."

And Schala was, of course, correct. In her words he felt some of his old strength touch at him. Yes, perhaps in time.

Even as he thought this his eyes glanced absently across to the far end of the camp, and paused.

"Hey, Kid," he asked quickly, "is that your brother over there?"

He motioned to a far away tent where a figure was pacing.

"Is it?" she questioned, unsure. She squinted, frowned, then darkened her stare.

"Yes," she said with a curse under her breath, "and trouble follows him even as I guessed. Come!"

They came up to a large group of people who were watching the wizard intently. What had so captivated them was this: a duel was beginning.

Serge clasped his hand to his mouth when he saw it. Schala merely scowled.

"Janus," she said to him as he passed her. "What fool thing is this now? A duel? Who have you tricked into this?"

Janus shook his head.

"It was well accepted," he replied. "I only laid the challenge. It was for the boy to accept or decline; to be foolishly bold, or a coward."

"What a choice that was," she replied angrily, not amused. "You were wondering about him yesterday. Is this the way you question?"

Janus fixed a stern look on her.

"Crono spoke to him alone, and I merely wished to know what passed. He said it was only formalities of a king to a subject, but he is a liar. It cannot be all. I will punish him for his falsehood, and discover what I wish to know."

And turning a deaf ear to Schala's outraged cries, he strode proudly to where a circle of people had been made. At the far end stood Sigurd. To the surprise of Schala and Serge, he seemed unafraid; perhaps he did not know his peril.

"You accept then, child? Only a liar then, which is better than a liar and a coward," Janus taunted. A man ran forward and fearfully placed Janus' scythe in his hands.

"This weapon does not abide liars. And neither do I. Tell me, I counsel you. For I am a harsh enemy, as any who have faced me will testify."

"I have answered you already," Sigurd replied steadily. "No more will I say. I do not wish for a battle, but if it must be, then I will rise to meet it."

Janus scowled disdainfully, glancing about at the people.

"He feigns at desiring peace!" he laughed. "Or is that the guise your cowardice takes, perhaps?"

Janus laughed to himself, and stepped forward a pace. Sigurd did likewise, drawing his silver blade from a scabbard at his side with a swift flourish so that the silvern blade caught the gleam of sunlight as though it were fire.

All awaited the first stroke, knowing that in no way would the child be able to bear it. Janus stood tall and grim above him, and made his attack. The scythe blade swept the air in a vicious swath, one that would easily have rent an weaponless man in two. But Sigurd was quick, and the dread weapon stopped short of causing harm, stayed by the silver edge of the Star Sword Meredter; the scythe was notched, the sword was not. Janus laughed, loud and grim, and suddenly it was unsure whether this was merely a duel, or if it was that the wizard truly intended to slay the child. His next stroke came swifter, and harder. Yet it too was parried, only now Sigurd's blade flashed in reply, and the dark shaft of the scythe took the stroke as Janus leaped back in fearful surprise. But it passed barely noticed, and Janus shook his head reprovingly.

"Better than a mouse, I admit." he said loudly in mock praise. Yet those who listened more discerningly could mark the faint shadow of a tremor in his voice, passing only slowly. "Now I shall not be so light in my blows."

Ten. Twenty strokes passed. Then thirty. And the people were breath-taken. Sigurd still stood, parrying every movement of Janus', and returning with skilful strokes of his own. The sound of the weapons echoed clear across the plain, and many more people gathered to see what this thing was.

Forty, and Janus became enraged. He had thought this to be a duel of no consequence, a simple practice for him. Yet here he was, unable to overcome a child. His eyes burned fiercely, yet it was to no avail in cowing Sigurd. Not in twenty years had he known a battle so distressing.

Fifty, and there were no signs that either was to submit. At last Janus could no longer bear to be so shamed.

"Ai entra sai hael..." he cursed with a harsh whisper, and at the next stroke Sigurd's blade recoiled so violently from the scythe that it was certain that it had been wizardry. It flew far from his hand and landed softly in the grass.

"Coward!" Sigurd gasped, even as Janus lifted him up roughly by the neck, raising him off the ground so that their eyes met level.

"You fool! You never had a chance against my power! I was fighting battles, nay, wars, hundreds of years before your birth!"

In reply, Sigurd only snarled: "Craven! You swore no magic!" He struggled desperately in that vicious grip, attempting to free himself without success. Yet his spirit was not crushed as Janus had hoped, and seemed even more fierce in defeat. This stubbornness angered the wizard all the more, for he resented such impudence to be shown to his face. In anger he hurled Sigurd far across the field with a mighty throw so that he landed hard on the bare earth. Shaking the ringing from his ears, Sigurd struggled wearily to his feat, near all of his strength spent. But in his eyes a resolve welled up, a determination that Janus saw only too well, and filled him with resentment for this young boy who continually defied him.

"And now," Janus hissed menacingly, "you shall tell me all I wish to know, from least to greatest! For you shall discover that none can keep a secret from me against my will, nor fail to know my wrath if they anger me. And indeed, you have angered my greatly!"

In these words Schala heard some of the darkness that had been Magus return to her brother, and she felt a slight fear rise up in her heart, both for the young child he now looked on with so dark a countenance, and for her dear brother. He could not begin to wander down those paths of darkness a second time.

But Sigurd had already risen again, in bold defiance. But to the amazement of all, though he seemed weary beyond words, in body he seemed uninjured, and in his eyes gleamed a cold fire of something none could mark. But in the very least he seemed undaunted by his dark opponent. Perhaps it would have been otherwise had he known the power and wrath of the one he faced, but even had it been so it may have been that Sigurd would not have quailed. Now he levelled a sharp gaze over to Janus, a challenge clear in his eyes. And Janus answered that challenge in strength. For now he stretched forth a gloved hand and, as he stood there, a figure tall and mighty, it seemed that a pall of darkness fell about all, and his eyes darkened to crimson, and then to the colour of black cinders, the centres as smouldering embers.

"Janus, no!" Schala yelled, but he did not listen even to her voice, and her cry faltered in despair. He began to murmur under his breath. Softly at first: slow and melodious, yet with a dark and foreboding menace. What words or incantations he spoke none could mark, yet Sigurd started in a sudden fright, seeing well the dark look upon Janus' face, and realizing for the first time the dire peril he was in. He dove for his sword that lay gleaming silver in the grass where it had fallen. Yet for all his swiftness, it was too late. In an instant the voice of Janus rose dramatically, as if the very hills had lifted their voices to the wind. A chill breeze arose, and the spells that he uttered gained in speed as well. They became an echo of thunder that rends the still night air, and a dark cloud arose from a world unseen to envelop Janus in blackness. Then with a movement of his hand, as a fisherman casts forth his nets, the darkness flew from Janus to Sigurd. So even as Sigurd's grip fastened on the hilt of his sword, a writhing strand of darkness wrapped itself about his arm, ensnaring it in a chill bond.

He grappled with the magical cord, yet his hands passed through it as through smoke, though it held him as firm in thrall as any chain of forged iron. In desperation he raised his sword to his free arm and swung for the accursed strand. Indeed the blade severed the icy grip, and the darkness that had entangled his arm faded from a dark mist to oblivion, freeing him. But ever more streams of night came at him, as a hundred writhing snakes without form or substance, but with power nonetheless. The spells of the dark wizard Magus were far too mighty for him to counter. His sword slipped from his hands to the ground and, though he struggled valiantly against his bonds, they wound themselves all the more tightly about him, constraining his every move.

All this Schala watched in horror, shocked and saddened alike by this sudden and unlooked for display of evil from her brother. She had thought that such things he had banished from his heart forever; this had been nothing more than a naive hope, she saw now.

"Do something, Kid!" Serge yelled, and she started, glancing upon him with a paling countenance. He, too, could see the very real peril Sigurd was in Janus' clutches.

But she was as uncertain as any, and hesitated for a moment as the words drew her out of her troubled thoughts.

"Do what, praytell? My brother won't listen to me in this mood."

"Then stop him!" He looked urgently and saw the constricting bonds ensnared Sigurd. "Use your powers! You're stronger than he is, aren't you?"

Schala winced slightly.

"Yes, certainly, but against my brother?" she murmured, obviously loath to strike her brother in combat.

"Fine, I will!" Serge cried, vexed by Schala's unusually pensive mood. Though it was likely beyond him, he at least would not sit idle.

"No..." she said slowly, placing a hand on his shoulder and drawing him back from where he had already begun to walk forward. "You'll only get hurt. I'll talk to him. Curse you, Janus, and your thoughtless stubbornness for making me do this."

All this while Janus paced about the spot where he now held his enemy completely in thrall, a look of dark and sweet victory sweeping his face. Now and again, even as the bonds seemed to loosen, he would chant some dark words of power, and the mystical ropes would twine themselves all the tighter.

"Do you submit now, urchin?" He growled at Sigurd.

In pain for lack of breath Sigurd winced, yet in defiance struggled a few words from his magical prison.

"Nay, never. Never shall I while you wrong me so! There is nothing I hide. What would you have me tell you?"

"Liar!" Janus yelled, and struck him across the face with the back of his fist so that fresh blood dripped from Sigurd's mouth.

Then Janus gripped an iron hand around Sigurd's neck, and his countenance became exceedingly grim.

"I shall crush the very breath out of you, if you do not loosen your tongue!"

But even at that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He swept about striking a terrible fist at what he deemed to be another attacker. But he started in surprise to see his dear sister struggling to rise from the earth, faltering from the heavy stroke he had dealt her. He stepped back a pace, his face sincerely apologetic, for he had not intended, not then or ever, to harm his sister in any way. Schala clutched her jaw in pain, and scowled in wrath.

"Whaddya think you're doing, Janus!?" she demanded, rising with uncertain footing.

"Schala! Are you all right?" he asked, true concern in his voice, "I..."

"Shut up!" she yelled, heedless of the manner in which she spoke. "I don't care who ya thought I was. What you're doin' here is sick!"

Behind Janus the dark nets dissipated, for he no longer put his thought to them. Sigurd stumbled wearily to the earth, fiercely drawing heavy breaths. But Janus did not so much as look, for to him the well being of his sister was nearer his heart.

"Are you alright?" he asked again, taking her gently by the arm.

She scowled a sideways glance at him, and angrily stepped away.

"Of course I'm okay. You don't think you could get the better of me, do ya?"

Even so she was in certain pain, and her eyes were plainly in a swoon from the power of his fist.

"Just stop this," she demanded, her eyes now blazing hotly.

Behind Janus, Sigurd rose weakly.

"It is all right, Princess Zeal. You needn't put yourself in peril for my sake."

Janus spun at the sound of his voice, the anger instantly returning to his face.

"She shall never be in peril from me! For you, though, I cannot say the same!"

"Janus, stop!" Schala cried again, locking her hand about his wrist, "Darkness is banished, do you not remember? You have denied it mastery of your heart!"

He swept his hand from her grip.

"No more so than you of yours, kind sister. But if you wish it, then I will halt this; for your sake, but for no other."

"Princess Zeal!" Sigurd cried out. "This will end as it must. I thank you for your compassion, but will not bow before your brother, though he break me."

Schala's eyes looked from brother to child with deepening concern. But on seeing the utmost graveness with which Sigurd had spoken, she bowed low, and retreated.

"It is no longer our battle," she said to Serge at her side. "He has chosen his fate, and in this matter I will abide by it. But I pray my brother uses caution. I looked into that child's eyes, and saw something there I could not discern. I wonder, now, how this will end."

While she said these words, Janus had once again returned his dark eyes to the child.

"We may continue at your will, Lord Magus," Sigurd said calmly, with a mocking flourish of his hand. Janus could only shake his head in disbelief. He had met blades with the child, enchained him with magic so potent it would have cowed even a great knight. Yet here he was, mocking him, who was prince among sorcerers.

"What would you do, boy?" he taunted in return. "What know you of either magic or lore, or feats of arms? You are no magician, and are at my mercy in spellcraft. As for swordplay, I have seen you fight. It was a contest in which I bested you; had you not held a blade beyond your station, it should have been even swifter. Yet still you defy me? I see: you are both hardy and foolish, and think yourself mightier than you are, like some peasant waif who prances about the woods, thinking himself to be a slayer of dragons. But this is no play; your very life is at my mercy! Do you not see that if I so willed it I could cast such a despair upon your mind that you would gladly tell me all out of sheer hopelessness? But in my compassion I give you now a chance to contemplate your place. I counsel you not to spurn this, for I will give you no mercy hereafter."

But Sigurd's anger rose at these words of reproach, and he shouted brave words of wrath in reply:

"Do not insult me so, lord of cowards, master of impotent shades and abominable spirits. I bested you in swordplay, by my own power. You played me false when you swore that you would use no sorcery."

"Child, I warn you, do not anger me for a second time. It was you who betrayed our faith. Your very weapon is magical, and if not for it you would not have withstood a dozen of my blows. Indeed, it is a weapon so far above you as Zeal was above the kingdoms of the earth; you know nothing of magic!"

This all Janus said harshly, and his sallow face was beginning to darken in anger again. But Sigurd replied:

"Do not take me for an unlearned fool. Magic or not, I even so know much of the histories of the world. Yea, even of Zeal, and of you, mighty braggart! Your pride is your flaw, and will not allow you to submit to a child such as I."

Then Janus thundered, in dreadful wrath:

"You dare to speak to me so of flaws? Me, Janus Rostines, nes il Zeal es meredet? Nes il diom, es teros faerio2! Bow before the lord of sorcerers! Do you know to whom it is you speak? You say you have studied of ancient times, so then you must know that I am no lowly captain, nor any common king, but a prince and lord of the mightiest land that ever was, and ever shall be: I am a child of Zeal the magnificent, Zeal the glorious, Zeal of the thousand names wielding power unmatched, even unto this day!"

"That I know well enough. And thus I knew I never had any hope of besting you, though my power were twice what it is. But honour will not let me stand down like a craven who flees at the first sight of battle and pain. And as sure as the sun sets and moon rises, and spring follows winter, I shall never bow to so haughty a lord as yourself, for you deserving of neither respect nor honour, and are only the king of cowed and fearful subjects."

"Enough, fool! Stop, or you shall feel the wrath I have only threatened with, and you will taste bitter death itself. Were you not so young, and were you my servant and not the thrall of another, I should have killed you before now for mere insolence!"

"And were you not who you are, I should have turned my back on you before now! You are not my king or sovereign, and I owe you no allegiance. I answer to none but my king. To him I shall indeed submit myself for judgement on this matter, as I do in all. And if any secrets lie between he and I, which they do not, there they shall remain ever unknown to all but us, and I shall not reveal them under any threat of death or pain to you or any other, save at the command of my king!"

"Are you so much a child that you think I will forever brook such insults to my very face?" Janus thundered with a fatal tone, and his face became livid with a dark scowl. "If you will not reveal your mind to me, then this will be your doom, child! I care no longer for secrets. Make ready, Sigurd, your death is at hand!"

And with a flash of his hand he sent forth a bolt of fearfully dark and fatally potent lightning at Sigurd. But then Janus paled in sudden bewilderment, and perhaps even a little fear. For the stroke by which he had meant to strike down Sigurd did naught. Indeed, the bolt had been true as to the skill of its master, and had not wavered in its momentary course. But now Sigurd remained standing, unscathed, the dark stroke having vanished in a flash of searing light.

"What is this? This cannot be so!" Janus cried out, taking a momentary step backward.

And now Sigurd laughed, a clear piercing laugh of one who has taken a foe by a sudden and unlooked for storm.

"Even as I have warned you before!"

And a bright flash rent the air between them and a bolt of lightning, white and pure even as Janus' had been dark, leapt to Sigurd's waiting hand with a clap of piercing thunder that echoed in the ears of all.

"So this is what I saw," Schala whispered to Serge. "He is a sorcerer child. A rare thing, indeed, in these days."

"You were much mistaken when you thought me but a fool in matters of sorcery. For till now I have but restrained my true power, in hopes that I could sway you to the truth of my words by other means, and knowing that your certainty in your own power would undo you. And so it has, for now see! Our contest of might is not yet ended, for neither has submitted to the other!"

In sudden fear Janus called his scythe to his hand. Wheeling through the air to his waiting grip he prepared to defend himself against one whom he had thought surely defeated long before.

"Hold!" a commanding voice called out from the watchers."Stay your wrath Janus, you fool. And you too, Sigurd."

Crono strode out from the midst of the people, a grim smile on his face.

"It seems that once again, my friend Janus, you have underestimated someone to your folly!"

Janus looked at him in rage, yet not wholly removing his gaze from Sigurd. Though a truce had been imposed between them by Crono's appearance, he did not trust Sigurd to honour it, and was uncertain of what power this child might possess; and his anger still burned heavily against him.

"How long have you watched?"

Crono fixed a stern and admonishing gaze on his friend.

"Since the start," he said darkly. "I know well who insisted on this duel, and could have warned you not to think so lightly of the child. Have I not looked into his eyes? Am I a fool that I could not see that uncommon might rested therein? And if I were to judge, I should proclaim you bested, friend."

"Bested? Not half so! I was but making trial of my power. Had I..."

"Yet this child did not even do so much, not till the end. He has what you do not: patience!"

Crono looked at Sigurd.

"And as for these secrets and hidden things you speak of, they are delusions of your dark mind." He looked over at Sigurd.

"He never told me any of this magician's power of his."

Janus glared at Crono.

"Then what, if not this, are you hiding! What did you speak to him about?!"

Crono scowled, but laughed slightly nonetheless.

"Of Guardia, and his home by the sea. Of his family, and his lineage and, moreover, to give him a fitting scabbard for his sword; or did you not notice that the blade was held sheathed to his side? It was not so yesterday, most especially not in one adorned with true-silver. What in this is so wrong? Is this the mighty secret you yearned to know?"

Janus did not answer, but frowned deeply. Crono, he was certain, was speaking the truth. Yet something was uneasy in his mind and, much to his vexation, he could not place it. Some secret was still being kept from him, perhaps. And, as a master of deceptions, he despised this.

He nodded in affirmation of Crono's answer.

"As you demand. But still, do not expect me to take kindly to this child! From this day forward we shall be as enemies."

Crono glared back harshly.

"Janus, nothing do I expect of you except to treat my people with their due respect and not harry them. Need we be divided on the brink of war?"

Janus did not answer, but cast a cold and scornful gaze in the direction of Sigurd. Their feud was not over, their eyes said to each other. It would take some greater thing to end it.

Janus swept his dark cloak about him and strode off from the crowds, the people parting wide to let him pass, fearing the his dark glance that seemed to bear a fatal shimmer.

Crono now looked reproachfully at Sigurd.

"He was not alone in folly, however. You are both too proud. Keep your honour, yes. And most certainly cherish nobility. But too much pride is simply foolishness, and shows but a lack of wisdom, and too much concern for one's self."

Sigurd bowed, yet his face burned red from the rebuke.

Crono turned and strode off past Serge and Schala, saying no word, though the faint hint of a mysterious laugh was on his lips, and his face was more joyful than it had been for some time.

As he departed, Serge turned to Schala.

"I didn't think your brother to be so ruthless," he said softly and in surprise over what had just passed.

A darkness crossing her eyes, she returned his words sadly.

"Yes, at times he is. Woe to those he calls enemy. But so has he always been, at least since his youth. Lavos is gone, but the darkness that was the Sorcerer has not left my brother's heart yet. He returns to it when it pleases him, it seems"

"Isn't there any way he can change that, maybe keep himself from it?"

"How can to hide one's true nature forever? Is that even possible, Serge? I myself had thought so before today, but I see that it is simply how he is, and it will never depart from him. Lavos is dead, but his mark remains imprinted as a scar upon our world, a lingering wound that may never fully heal. Janus shall never fully abandon his old ways."

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)


	14. The Battle at the Fields of Truce

CHAPTER XIII

**THE BATTLE AT THE FIELDS OF TRUCE

* * *

**

It was daybreak, and the dew was shining like gems on the long grass of the plain, as the sunlight greeted the earth with a new day. In the eastern sky the wisps of cloud burned in many marvellous hues as the sun rose above the horizon. A matchless beauty, perhaps, as it signalled rebirth, and hope. Yet, on this day, few there were noticed its magnificent splendour, for battle was at hand on the plains.

The previous few days had been fraught with negotiation and parlay between the commanders of Porre and Guardia. All of these had failed, for while Guardia would not yield to anything less than the absolute of all the armies of Porre, neither would the Empire willingly abandon their occupation of the land. And so it was that it had been vehemently decided that they should decide matters through war, and that battle should take place on the fields of Truce.

From his place where he stood at the front of the left battalion Serge could clearly hear the endless beat of the war drums echoing from behind. It stirred his heart.

Around him near to one thousand men stood ready. Crono had placed no less than an entire army of his people under Schala's hand, and Serge was to be her herald and lieutenant, and this did not rest easily upon him. For he wasn't certain that he was prepared for the charge laid upon him. But at the least he wasn't alone. Schala, his commander in this battle, was at his side. She, at least, appeared to be confident and unafraid. Though this might well have been but an appearance, for she usually seemed so, whatever she truly felt, as is becoming of a good leader.

She was arrayed in robes of deep azure that shimmered as she moved, but fashioned in such a way that allowed her to be fleet and lithe, as was ever her desire. Across her shoulders was draped an elegant cloak of like material that fell down to well below her knees. She was shod now in light leather boots that reached nearly to her knees and, as Serge, she wore no helm. Her golden hair, however, she had dyed with tongues of crimson so that it appeared as if her very hair was on fire as it moved. No open armour did she display, neither shield nor even mail such as those in Guardia were wont to wear. As for weapons she carried her beloved dagger at her left hip, the jasper in the hilt twinkling slightly in the rising sun. On her right was fastened a short sword she had begged from a master blacksmith. Though well forged it was by no means an exceptional weapon. It was steel from tip to pommel, with only the mark of the smith adorning it. The hilt was of wood and leather, as might be expected of such a weapon. Moreover, it was an odd thing for her to bear, for she had not often carried such weighty weapons into battle. Serge glanced at her, slight apprehension of the fast approaching battle still skipping through his heart.

"Nervous, Serge?" she asked with a dim smile.

He nodded somewhat.

"This is my first field battle," he answered. "I've never seen anything like this before."

She looked at him with understanding and said:

"And you pray it to not be your death. I know how you feel. I too have never fought such a battle."

She looked about warily, making sure all but Serge were out of earshot and added:

"I'm nervous and frightened as hell, mate. But without fear there can't be courage, can there? Just wish these Porre blokes would get on with it." She looked with a darkening stare to the far fields. "What's takin them so bloody long?"

The shadow of a smile then crossed her at this sudden shift in mood and speech, as she then unsheathed her dagger and looked keenly at it, its silver blade glinting sharply in the sunlight.

"Check your sword also, Serge. Are they prepared for this?"

And there she was speaking so differently again. He had been in her company for near to a month and a half now, and her occasional disparity in tone and mood still caught him sharply. At one moment she might be speaking as though she were yet Kid, the girl by whose name he still called her. But then, a moment later she was the regal princess Schala. And it was near always the latter, he had soon seen with some sadness. He missed the carefree girl he had known once as his best of friends.

He swept the Masamune, which lay fastened over his back, into his grip. Like to Kid he wore near to nothing in the way of armour. Still he donned his tarnished coat of mail, but if it came to arrows or swordstrokes it would be of no help to him. And so he must trust to his skill, he knew. Whatever that might amount to.

As his hand fastened tight upon the leather hilt of his sword, he heard the echo of speech in his mind, saying:

"Now here is one who is nervous. Do you fear the battle, my master?"

But of course Masa knew the answer to that question. In the form of the question he knew it to be Masa, the elder and stronger of the two brethren spirits, whose will was the strength of the sword.

"You don't have anything to worry about, though," he replied in a low whisper. "Win or lose, live or die, you don't have anything to fear."

"I wouldn't say so," came the whispered reply of a gentler voice. "Swords can be broken just as human wills. And if the wicked wield us, that can be a terrible thing to endure, I assure you. Remember that the lives you take and the blood you spill this day will be on our account no less than on yours, for it is we who must drink the lifeblood of others on this field. But to this purpose we were born, and so will not argue the design of our creator. And so neither should you, though it be a fate of death that is measured out for you; none can see the full purpose their lives hold. Wield us well, and wisely, and remember your purpose and mortality with a keen mind."

And lastly the womanly voice of Selinirë said: "But we wish you well this day. Know that we hold your fate as dearly as our own. Many a tear we should shed, if you perish."

Serge slipped his weapon over his shoulder with a sigh. The wisdom which Mune had given him was not all that comforting.

"Serge," Schala said slowly. "I begin to wonder what news there is of Porre. They're taking frightfully long to march here. Perhaps Crono knows something I do not. I recall he sent out scouts near to an hour ago. Go and ask him of their report. As for me, I fear something in this, so I myself am going to scout, and see what I can discover."

Serge nodded to her will, and took off in a sprint towards the front central lines where Crono stood.

At the last Schala called after him: "And tell him to be wary off Porre and their guiles. They are hardly fools!"

It wasn't all too far, and he was thankful to be allowed some movement. It cleared his mind.

He found Crono standing at the very front, striding here and there at the head of his troops, seemingly lost deep in his contemplations. At his side stood Janus, leaning on a great reaping scythe, a grim look of excitement in his dark eyes. Here was one who did not seem the least bit concerned over the chances of the coming battle. Indeed he seemed more than a little eager, which was hardly a surprise.

Crono finally saw Serge approaching, and glanced upward with a smile.

"Ah, Serge," Crono greeted him. "What are you doing here? Is there something that concerns you or Schala?"

"She sent me. She was getting worried and sent me to ask if the scouts have returned yet."

Crono shook his head, concern crossing his features.

"That was the object of my thoughts just now. No, not of yet, and that worries me. I fear Porre may be attempting some guileful strategy. Perhaps they will try to flank us. Though I don't know how they possibly could; to manoeuver an entire army so unseen would be a near impossible task."

Janus strode over, as powerful seeming as Serge had ever seen him be. Arrayed now in full battle armour, he seemed indeed mighty, and Serge saw why so many had mortally feared him once. His long crimson cape billowed out behind him like monstrous wings, and his hair, violet streaked with raven, stirred in the morning breeze. His face was that of one not to be trifled with, rent with the shadows of many scars, and unshaven in many days. In his left hand he gripped his great scythe, and his form recalled the medieval icons of some dark terror. Under his right arm he held clutched an evil looking helm of black, marked with runes in some forgotten script.

"So, to you had fallen the duty of errand boy, has it?" he laughed, his voice sharp as the crisp morning air.

"It appears so" Serge replied, absently.

Janus squinted in the morning light.

"Where is my sister; I cannot see her."

"She left. To scout on her own," Serge answered.

Crono sighed.

"Fair enough. By her sorceress skills she's most certainly a better scout than those I sent out. But it is unwise to leave your men leaderless, even for a short while. You should likely return now, before they begin to miss their commander."

Serge nodded.

"Good luck Crono, and you too Janus."

As Serge left them, he heard Janus yell out after him, grim laughter in his voice, crying:

"Luck? I do not need it. I forge my own fate!"

But Serge had no peace as he returned to his position for, at the moment in which he arrived, Schala returned. She approached Serge slowly, yet he could read the utter urgency in her eyes.

"Do not worry the men. Let us talk as though nothing is amiss," she admonished quietly as she reached him. Her robes were now streaked with mud and grass, and her face bore marks of earth, showing that indeed something grave had happened.

She wiped her brow with her sleeves and looked towards where Crono stood.

"I don't know how they have done it, but we have near to half the Porre army on our left flank. I would assume a similar battalion is even now on our right."

"What?" Serge demanded urgently. He must have heard her wrong. "But our scouts would have told us."

"Our scouts are dead to the man. I found one, though it is better not to speak of it. I hardly returned alive myself. Those magicians they have are a tricky bunch. Somehow they've almost managed to close in about us. It appears that they have not a few masters of illusion within their ranks. From the Black Wind, or else Mystics."

"I'll go tell Crono!" Serge replied, and started to run off once again. But Schala laid hold of his arm, staying him.

"I will go; of what I saw, I must tell him myself. Stay here, and get prepare to order an about face."

Serge's heart chilled. What little confidence he had had now faded away. And what ill fortune with which to begin the day. He watched Schala leave, doubt chilling his heart with ice.

Behind him the soldiers began to murmur, having indeed noticed something amiss.

"Calm!" Serge yelled out, surprising himself at how suddenly and loudly he spoke the words. Schala had only half made it to Crono when a great battle horn sounded to the West. And then, as if appearing from a lifting mist, he saw in the far distance the armies of Porre. He espied the glint of steel, and heard the beat of drums. The magic had lifted, and battle was at the doorstep.

"Turn to face!" he called out, running to the far West of the lines as swiftly as he could. At his command, the army turned. Divisions and battalions rearranged, and fell once more into orderly array. And, glancing both in front and behind, his heart nearly gave way at a sudden thought: here he stood, between one army that would defend him, fighting at his command, and another that would seek his death. Two thousand for, three thousand against. And then Schala was at his side again, and his thoughts calmed for the time.

To the east Schala's news had dismayed Crono. It was a more clever move than any he had looked for. And now they would at needs fight a battle on two sides; a grim prospect, but it could not now be undone. He spurred his horse to the East, and called out for the men to turn likewise. Even as they had in the West, the armies reformed. Janus too followed.

And now, finally, the last pieces of the battle had been set. Crono placed a helm, set with the figure of a dragon upon his head, and vaulted up upon his horse. Turning it about, he faced his people with a determined gaze. He swept out his sword and flashed it high above his head.

"At long last shall Guardia be reborn!" he cried above the din of the gathered soldiers. All stopped to hear him speak.

"Fifteen years is a great span of time; so long have we suffered the occupation and troops of Porre. Yet now that time is ended, and we rise up in defiance of their fabled might. Let it be they that quake with fear this day. You know for what you fight, and your own wills are kindling enough to your zeal, and so no more need I say."

He paused somewhat, and to his side came Janus, now riding a horse as well. A great black steed: a perfect match for its master. From a place on the side of the horse hung his scythe, and he had now placed his dark helmet atop his head.

"Once I was your enemy, people of this land of Guardia. Today I am your friend. And now let your foes tremble, for at your side fights none other than Magus, once lord captain of Mystics. Forget your fear, and be bold," he said, his voice even, though echoing across the plain with his wizard's power.

Crono nodded.

"Let this day be their day of reckoning! Iustitia nostri signum est!" he cried, rallying the hearts of his people to his.

He turned his horse from the people and faced the distant plain. At the furthest end the armies of Porre were now appearing dimly, even as they had in the West. Crono spurred up his horse, raising his sword once more so that it caught the light of the sun.

"Guardia viva in aeternum!" he cried, brandishing his flashing sword about.

At these words a clamorous great cheer arose from the army, and they clashed their weapons to their shields with such noise that it seemed as if battle was already upon them.

Crono bore his sword before him. Today it would drink blood once again.

In the distance the unbroken line of soldiers, five score long and dozens deep, marched steadily towards the hosts of Guardia to the sound of endlessly beating wardrums. In response the Guardian heralds, at a shout from Crono, raised their great horns to their lips and blew a thunderous challenge that could be heard a hundred leagues distant. All at once the troops of Porre, as if daunted by that noise, stopped and, for an eternal moment, all was still and quiet. It seemed as if even the birds had stilled their songs, in apprehension of the coming storm of battle.

But, as suddenly as the quiet had come upon them, it ended. With a distant clatter the soldiers of Porre moved about, their archers taking their places in perfect time and order at a command from their captains.

"1st army, at my command!" Crono shouted, making certain his men could hear his voice. "Legion of the Crimson Hawk, form up! Shieldman, to the vanguard and take positions!"

With less precision, though no less zeal, than their Porre enemies, the men of Guardia slowly took up their battle positions under the skilful command of Crono. The division of shieldmen took the van, for they bore great shields, and were to provide a defence from the first volley of the enemy arrows. Behind them the Guardian archers readied themselves.

"Archers, at the ready!" Crono cried.

"Archers, at the ready!" The commanders of the bowmen repeated, in direct echo to Crono's words.

And now the battle began in force.

From far afield a thousand arrows lanced out. Darting with deadly speed from the ranks of Porre they rained down upon the gathered host of Guardia. Not a few bold warriors perished beneath those darts. Yet for the most part the shields of Guardia held fast and true, and the armies remained unmoved. And now Crono looked to his own stroke. Left and right he glanced, and nodded to his own leaders, with a look commanding them to their duties. He heard their cries echo down the ranks, calling all bowmen to once again make themselves ready.

"Archers! Men of the Serpent's Head, prepare yourselves. Those of the Waning Moon, draw your bows and take your aim. Hold steady. Do not falter. Loose arrows!"

A full two hundred men, bearing upon their banners and shields either the device of a fang bared snake, or of a crescent moon shining silver on a sable field, drew up their tall yew bows. The volley of arrows fled from the Guardian lines, coming down with upon the Porre army. These, however, had scarcely any heavy armour, and the shields they bore were small, so the stroke that was dealt them was a hard blow. From his mount Crono could see the foemen falling in scores before this dreadful rain. It lasted for but a moment, but left the ranks of Porre with a heavy toll.

The first stroke for Guardia, Crono thought with a smile. And a good one, indeed. May Porre long feel the blood of that strike, and know now the fury of Guardia avenged!

Crono saw that the enemy captains felt another such exchange would be too dire, for from his view atop his mount he could well see the hasty orders being given, and descried the sound of rallying trumpets. And his thoughts were proven true a moment later. With a beating of war drums the Porre legions took once more to the advance, albeit with more haste and less order. Crono faced down his approaching enemy, the resolve burning like a flame in his eyes, his keen desire for vengeance nearly mastering him. Now would Porre be too near for bowshot; now would the skirmish upon the field begin.

"Horseman and knights! Those of the company of the Sable Dragon, to my side!" he called, his voice unfaltering.

From the flanks riders that he had held ready reigned in their steeds to his side. No more than three score they numbered, and yet each heavily armed with swords and spears, and armour unmatched by any among Porre. Here they were worth ten on the ground, perhaps more. Upon their shields was emblazoned the truest emblem of their land, a black dragon with pinioned wings outstretched upon a field of crimson red. Among them a single banner flew high and proud, it too bearing a like symbol. For these, the knights, were of the highest order of warriors in the land; the sign of the country was theirs to bear.

"Today we fight together again. For the glory and freedom of Guardia!" Sir Hadrian said reigning in beside Crono with the speed of a skilled horseman. His armour, dull steel, clattered as he readied himself. Upon his head sat a mighty helm, its visor open. He appeared as a true knight of the old order. Brushing aside a lock of silver hair, he raised his hand in farewell.

"To you, I wish luck. May fate be on your side, my Lord."

With these parting words he shut his visor, and drew his great sword from its scabbard.

Crono nodded to him in affirmation.

"The same to you, old friend. May we drink to victory together tonight!"

Crono returned his gaze forward, seeing all his knights now ready. At his left Janus swept out his great scythe, holding the dread weapon in his iron grip. Crono thrust his sword forward through the air.

"Forward, without fear!" he cried, the age old warcry of the knights of Guardia.

With a thunderous roar the horsemen urged their steeds on. Behind, running with as swift a pace as they could gather, the hosts of Guardia followed.

And so began the battle known ever after as the Battle Upon the Plains.

Crono upon his horse tore into the midst of the enemy, sweeping apart their lines as a man running between tall grass. And even so came Janus, but holding firm his great scythe he came upon the armies as a reaper, and his swath was swift and fell, even as at the harvest the ripe wheat falls to the sickle. It was an onslaught more terrible than any those of Porre had looked for, having not accounted in a mere thirty horseman such a fury. But Crono could not be restrained in his wrath, and he went among the armies, high upon his steed, sweeping his blade where he would. And seldom it was that his blade failed to find blood.

But the generals were quick to muster their armies together again, and even as the lines of footmen met, and the battle began fully, they had regained their wits. The tide turned against Guardia even as it began, and Crono saw then that it would be no light thing to win the day. He reigned his horse about and saw Janus leaping from his steed, as a black winged bird of the night coming down as a terror upon his foes. His scythe swept a deadly swath, and men fled.

Crono brandished his own blade skilfully, parrying all strokes set against him, whether spear or sword. But his horse was not so fortunate as he, and the spearmen of Porre set upon it with their long lances.

Beneath Crono it stumbled and fell, dying to their pikes. Crono rolled to the ground, and rose faster than he had fallen, his sword ready and gleaming. Those that stood about him were stricken with a terrible fear, for a deadly light burned in his eyes. With a great thrust he drove his sword through a tall troll wielding a mighty scimitar, the black blood withering the ground where it fell. And so his long awaited battle for vengeance was upon him, as his foemen fell down before him in scores.

But longer it took the West to engage in their own combat. While Crono and Janus took to fighting their foes, Schala and Serge still faced West, awaiting the arrival of Porre, who now appeared as an unbroken line of men in the field across from them. From far to the East they could hear the battle joined, and espied the flash of weapons; they prayed for the safety of their friends, and for all of Guardia. But soon they turned their thoughts to their own defence.

"Take heed for their archers!" Schala yelled as she paced at before the hosts, calling all ears to her voice. "Shields at the ready!"

The front ranks of Porre stopped, allowing for their archers to make their stroke.

"Arrows!" Serge called out, seeing the black cloud of darts rise up in the sky like a flock of startled birds.

The shields were put forward, and the arrows rained down. From behind his own shield Serge could hear the sharp strikes of a hundred arrows about him, and shuddered as one with a black shaft struck deep into the earth at his side. But it only lasted for a short moment and, dropping his shield to the ground, he saw that for the most part his men were unharmed.

"Draw weapons!" he cried out, feeling strange as he did so. To be giving orders, most especially to so many, was a thing new to him. And the knowledge that those commands would be followed to the death gave him a mingled feeling of power and disquiet. What if he chose ill?

But he had little time to muse on such things. Behind him swords were drawn, spears were readied, and axes gripped firm.

Shining like a field of steel the swords of Porre were drawn in reply.

"Lord commander?" a captain addressed Serge, coming up to beside him. "The men are ready and await your command."

He looked over to Schala. She drew her sword and nodded that the order should be given.

"Advance!" he called out, and he found himself hoping that he had cried loudly enough that his voice would carry to everyone.

He took a few heavy but ragged breaths. A fear beset him, and he wondered if Schala felt the same. Those not a hundred paces before him would be seeking his death, and doing their utmost to end his life. If he did not do well he would suffer through pain and perhaps death. This was no friendly contest of arms, nor even single combat. Here his death might come from any side, so that he might not even see the stroke or man that would kill him. He shook his head and quelled it, calling to him all his courage.

Dissembling all emotion he ran. Behind the men followed him and Schala. Followed them to the death, if that was their fate.

The sea of enemies struck Serge as if they were a great wave, and in an instant he was surrounded in an ocean of foes. Around him men went to their separate battles to the death. A soldier spied him and rushed to meet him, brandishing a long sabre. But Serge, who had seen many more battles this man he now faced, was more than an equal for his enemy. In two swift strokes the man fell, the Masamune striking him his death blow. Serge took no joy in it however as he looked upon the edges of his sword, stained with the lifeblood of the man he had just killed. He took pause for a moment, even there in the middle of the battle. He felt sickened, and gasped shortly. What wreck of a world was this, wherein men fought so? Here was a man, as good as any other no doubt, and he had just slain him. Yet there are times when war and death are unavoidable, even necessary, and one must look beyond the sickening horror of the day's deeds to what ends will be accomplished thereby. When one must put aside all thoughts and cares for one's own safety, and for any pains that the heart may feel over deeds dark, though necessary. Justified only through the knowledge that these this evil is done neither through will nor joy but in need, and for the sake of others. And it was such a time in which Serge found himself. Fight now and live to muse on the righteousness of your deeds later, his heart cried out to him. He shut fast his eyes for an instant, summoning all his will and powers...

Around Serge the terrifying sounds of battle raged, like to a storm itself: the shrill clash of a thousand weapons striking, the sharp whistle of arrows piercing the air, the battle cries of the victorious and the death screams of the mortally stricken. It was more terrible than Serge would have ever thought it to be, and a fear began to again gnaw at his heart. Yet he quelled it with a glance beside him, for at his side Schala fought with great ferocity. Indeed, she appeared now almost akin to a demon, so terrible was she in the fury of battle. By her ancient powers of magic she was wreathed in blankets of scorching flame that burned about her as a fiery cloak, and streamed back from every movement she made. In her usually kind and gentle face burned such a fire so that even Serge could not meet her eyes but for an instant, for they were kindled to crimson, and flashed with power, being seemingly lit by an inner flame. None could withstand her blade, for it danced with a deadly fire and, indeed, no few ran from her onslaught out of sheer terror of her wrath. Storms of flame were there at her command, and they sprang from her hands in terrible hurricanes and blazed about her in pillars of scorching heat that withered the grass at her feet. Indeed, it seemed as if the ancient Norse gods were once more arisen, and Surtur was come with his flaming sword to destroy all the world in fire.

Next to her stood Serge, now battling with his utmost strength. At his command were powers of unbridled and undimmed light, as bright and pure as the very sunlight that shone from the sky. His eyes burned as two stars, and the Masamune flashed golden in his grip, a whirling blaze as awesome as a wheel of holy fire. Together, for a time, they were as a fortress for the people of Guardia, and ever when the fray appeared most hopeless they fell back around the pair, and their courage was renewed seeing their heros' valour and power. But despite their might, they could not face more than a few foes at a time, for such were the limits of their powers, and oft they were almost slain, being overwhelmed in the onslaught. Yet it was not their fate to die yet, and ever they escaped, though not without many wounds.

The fortunes on the eastern flank were not as good, however.

Here Crono and Janus battled side by side, and they too wielded great power. Raging storms swept the battlefield, and ever lighting darted to and from Crono, for it came and went at his bidding. No less in might Janus beside him mastered the shadows and darkness, and it seemed to their foes that the sun had been eclipsed, and night come. Yet they were challenged by mighty foes, for here had Porre sent their own magicians. Few of these were human, most being mystic mercenaries bought whose skills had been treacherously bough with the gold of the Empire: tall half-humans and cunning swart elves whose eyes glinted brightly as they put forth their spells. These were mighty indeed, and the battle between the opposing magicians raged, ravaging the field in-between so that decimated earth smouldered black and scorched, though neither side could overcome the other enough to gain victory. Long, too, those battles were, and Crono fought on undaunted, not fearing either death or pain; he lived now only to battle for Guardia, and knew that his end would come soon, and welcomed it. Therefore he fought with a fury that struck fear into the hearts of his enemies, being wrathful and knowing that he must perish, or else live bereft of joy.

But soon the fortunes in the West also turned to ill, for Serge and Schala grew weary at last and the enemy, seeing the flames of her wrath dying, pushed forward with desperate fury.

In the midst, Serge was left to his own, for the foe came between him and Schala.

He turned about frantically, fearing at any moment that some blade would cruelly end his life. Where was she?

"Master, turn about!" Masa cried out suddenly in his mind.

Serge turned, finding an enemy almost upon him. The soldier struck viciously at Serge with a long bladed greatsword. Sparks flew as the Masamune smote against it, the sound echoing clear and terrible in Serge's ears. His arms ached with the strength of the blow, but he turned his weapon about, thrusting it towards the soldier in a quick strike. But the man he faced was far better at war craft than the others Serge had fought. A cold gleam seemed to burn in his eyes, and he was not fully human, it seemed. Nearly too late did Serge understand the dreadful meaning of this: the one he faced was a sorcerer. The ground at his feet buckled and lurched as the magician whispered some fell incantation, and Serge nearly faltered, stumbling on the cracked earth. Seeing the sudden weakness of his foe, his opponent was upon him in a moment, the shining blade sweeping in a deadly arc. Serge spun about, rolling to the earth to avoid the death blow. Indeed, he narrowly missed that fate, the sharp edge merely grazing his arm streaking it red, and burning it with a sharp lancing pain. But now Serge was in grave danger for, in evading the deadly blade, he had fallen to the ground, with his enemy still standing tall over him. The soldier laughed grimly, foretasting certain victory. The sword swept down for Serge. But Serge was not fully overcome yet, and he brandished the Masamune over him; the shaft took the blow, saving him once more from death. The soldier drove the blade ever downward. In foolish desperation, for it would have been better for him to keep hold of his blade, Serge threw the Masamune away from him with great effort, for a sharp moment causing the sword to sweep harmlessly to the side and into the ground. With all the agility and speed his weary body could muster he twisted and sprang up before his enemy. But his peril was now great indeed, for Serge was without a weapon: the Masamune lay on the ground, far out of reach, and he saw what a fool he had been to let it leave his hands so lightly. Even now he would have leaped for it, folly though it might have been. But it seemed that his limbs had slowed, and he looked in fear to the magician who softly whispered accursed words of binding upon Serge. Before he could try at a counterspell, the sword was swept for his throat. It was too quick for him to do aught in his defence, even with magic, and he was sure that it was his death come upon him. So this was his fate, then. The end of all his adventures would be to die slaughtered here on a bloody field a thousand miles from his home.

A shrill clash met his ears, and he started as he realized he had not died. The blade of his enemy had stopped a hair's breadth from his neck, stayed by Schala's dagger. Where she had come from he did not know. He had lost sight of her long before, but never had he been so glad for her company.

The warrior-magician, too, was surprised, but to him it was not hope but dismay. He had not seen her approach, and was suddenly faced by another warrior, whose crimson eyes burned in red wrath more fearsome than his own. His mind stumbled for a mere second, unsure and daunted. It was his death. Schala laid hold of his blade with her free hand and with a sharp cry swept her dagger to his throat. He fell with a faltering cry, and she turned to Serge with a grim smile in her face. Some dark joy burned in her eyes as she surveyed the field, and he wondered at this.

"Serge, at your back!" she called on a sudden, her eyes darting behind him.

He had been so entranced by his near escape from death that he had lost his sense of battle. With her cry his mind leapt to readiness. An enemy infantryman, bearing a long thin sabre, made a stroke at him. Serge leaped aside, more swiftly than the silver blade that cut through the air. With a sharp flurry Schala's dagger lanced through the air and struck the man down.

"Twice now!" she yelled at him warningly and, catching it up from the ground, tossed him the Masamune.

And so the battle continued to rage, for good and ill to both sides, the tides turning this way and that as is the wont of war. Oft was victory in doubt, and no more so than at the eastern flank. Here still Janus and Crono attempted to keep the enemy war wizards at bay. They had succeeded, for the most part, and yet they were but two and the enemy was many. Soon they were overwhelmed, and found themselves alone, all their guard lying slain about them. And in the fury lost sight of each other.

Then Janus flung down his shield, and drew his sickle. And men fled from the twofold fear of his sickle and scythe, which he wielded one in each hand. A grim image of death incarnate, but perhaps even more terrifying for he was no myth to freeze the heart on dark nights, but a manifest terror that walked abroad in the daylight; a sorcerer prince of old the likes of which the world had long since forgotten, he came with all the might of the ancient world out of times past. And men ran from his onslaught rather than face him, crying that the King of Death had been set loose upon them, or that the power of Zeal was reborn. Few there were that would openly essay to match arms with him, and those that did were for the most part worthy magicians in their own right. But what power of latter days can compare to that which was Zeal the Magnificent? That might lived now only its two children, Janus and Schala.

And so it was that not any man alone would dare stand before that one who once was chief among wizards, who of old had been called Magus, the Sorcerer, and Janibas, the Necromancer of the Mystics. Though wounded many times, he was ever victorious against all that stood against him, whether soldier or warrior magician. But, seeing that any one of them alone was hopeless to overcome his power, they drew together, and thronged about him so that he was hard set to, and he grew weary. His blades were now notched and did not gleam silver but red. For they dripped in the mingled blood of countless foes. All the more did he struggle, seeing well the peril he was in. And in his desperate fury he grew the more fell to look upon. His eyes gleamed as two dark stars that had burned in the ancient skies, or perhaps as twin jewels of jet. And the brandishing of his blades was so swift that it was after said that they were unseen to the eyes, save only in the flash of light when they caught the sunlight. And that was likened to the flickering of a star.

"My blade grows weary," he yelled aloud in a daunting voice, "It seeks the blood of those cravens that flock about me, those who fear me even though I stand alone!"

It shook the hearts of his foes, but even so it was a hopeless cry. He was outmatched in numbers if not in skill.

"Ah, but not alone!" a voice cried, coming to his side. Cutting his way through the hosts Crono had once again won his way to the side of his comrade. And now they stood together in last desperate defence, back to back and daring any and all that sought to slay them. About them a lambent lightning played, amidst brooding darkness, and with eyes aflame they seemed like to two ancient gods, arisen from myth. Even as great Frey, the king's namesake, and cunning, dark Loki, battling by some strange fate as friends. But though they were mighty indeed, and none on earth more fell and grim than Crono, the Great Hero, in his fury, gods they were not.

They were but two mortals in a perilous world, and it was in hopeless fury that they slew, with a seeming fey mood upon both their souls. The enemy closed in about them, hemming them in, but still they were undaunted for, though death looked upon them smiling, they feared it not. Indeed, Crono desired nothing more than to end in such a glorious way. Then Crono lifted high his sword so that it gleamed brightly, and Janus brandished his scythe before him, and they prepared to die with glory, with their last strength upholding the last hopes of Guardia.

"A strange doom upon us, indeed," Janus laughed. "That those that have defeated demons should die to the hands of mere men."

"Yet no less noble, whether by demon's flame or man's arrow," Crono replied. "And let us make this a long remembered end at the least!"

Yet, at the last, they were saved by fate. For even as the enemy rushed upon them with victory flashing in their eyes, and the twain raised their weapons in reply, they heard a cry echo loud from behind the backs of their foes, rising high above the sound of battle.

Seeing the distress of his lords, Sigurd had gathered what few strong and undaunted men he could find around him, and now came to their relief. The wizards of Porre had been too eager for the fall of their mighty enemies, and had ceased vigilance upon all other sides. Now Sigurd came upon their rearguard with a great fury, and in the confusion that he wreaked not a few mighty magicians fell to his blade, for none now fought harder than he. His flaxen hair flashed golden in the sunlight and in his face was revealed a great valour, and all that saw him in that hour thought him to be a mighty and skilled warrior indeed; none saw a child of but sixteen. Then he yelled out to Janus over the din of the battle:

"I hope I did not arrive over late my lord!"

And Janus smiled, now finally seeing the worth revealed in Sigurd. Then all the ills that stood between them were cast aside, and Janus shouted to him, thankful for this unlooked for aid, crying:

"No, my young friend. I see now at last that you are indeed worthy of that blade you wield. You are mighty, I deem, beyond what I had accounted you. And now let us battle together as brothers, for the day is not yet won."

Then Crono and Janus ran up and joined him, and side by side the three drove forward with the small company, their strength and hope renewed by Sigurd's courage. The fear inspired by this sudden and unlooked for onslaught sowed discord in their foes, and they broke before them. Leading the armies of Guardia Janus hewed down foes as a reaper at harvest, and both the blades of Zeal flashed together with renewed hope. And so it was that the armies of Porre were mastered by the timely stroke of a mere child, and much were the people of Guardia avenged in that hour. Then those of Porre that remained living on the plain fled the massacre of the battlefields for the woods, their spirits and hopes defeated for the time, and the people of Guardia stood victorious as the sun set with red fire on a day of battle and death.

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)


	15. AfterTremors of Battle

CHAPTER XIV

**AFTER-TREMORS OF BATTLE

* * *

**

The battle was now over, and twilight was fast approaching. From where Serge sat under an oak tree on the outskirts of the war camp he could see well the battlefield. It sickened him to see the carnage that was laid bare before him. Everywhere lay the bodies of the dead, broken and ruined from a manifold array of weapons. The darkening crimson blood of both friends and enemies lay mingled together in the field, a terrible sight in the final rays of the setting sun. Many hundreds lay dead there, their fleeting lives having ended in such harsh anguish as the darkness of death had closed in about their dimming sight.

'Curse this!' Serge thought to himself, wondering if the freedom of Guardia was truly worth this. Can one place value on either freedom or life, or seek to compare them?

And now he wished only to be back in the peace of his village, where the ordering of the seasons and events was far simpler than the choices brought about by wars and the destinies of ancient kingdoms.

"Well, now, Serge! Don't look so gloomy. You'll depress everyone."

This was Schala, speaking in an unusually light tongue, who had walked up behind while he had been clouded in thought. She sat down on the earth at his side, following his morose gaze out to the field. Serge shook his head and closed his eyes from the sight, though the memory of it would not depart. And his arm still stung him bitterly; the wounds had been healed some by Schala's sorcery, yet still they burned, not willing to allow his thoughts a moment of peace apart from the memory of battle.

He sighed greatly at this fate of his, touching tenderly at the wound, then shying away from it when he found it only caused him greater pain.

"We won. I know we won. But all the same, I don't feel it," he said at last with an ever heavier heart.

Schala, in reply, looked compassionately upon him and said:

"That, I would think, is a common feeling, even for the oldest of warriors. It is not fully a cause of your conscience, however; it is your own strength that betrays your heart. It saps the will to be so enflamed with fury as your were during the battle and now, in the aftermath, the peace is deafening in your heart. Next to the power and fury that it felt but hours ago, it feels hollow and full of sorrow. I should not think that it has ever been any different for warriors since the dawn of time. But now you begin again to question the justice in war, eh?"

Serge nodded silently.

"What justice is there in the world?" she said. "Need we expect it in war? Humanity is both twice blessed and thrice cursed. We can feel love and joy, and put our mind to such beauty that even God must be well pleased. But so too do we war, slay, and do evil; what tears must God weep for this. And most bitter is that we cannot see the end of what we do; we march to war with hope and reason, and thus say it is not evil. But how damning this must seem to the eyes of heaven, for we are fools treading paths dark before our very eyes. We cannot see the future, and hope that the war we embark upon is destiny and justice. But in the end it is the lot of man to hate, and to succumb to greed, and fall prey to our own curse of sin. So have things always been."

Her words trailed and she stood, casting her mellow eyes on the terrible field.

"...someday we'll look back on this day with bitter reminiscence and think about these things Serge without worry or care, and perhaps understand them with more clear eyes, seeing beginning, middle, and end, rather than the start only. But for now we must follow where our hearts lead us, and trust the counsel of our minds, though it is likely to fail us. Is that not the best we can do?"

"Yes, I know, I know," he muttered sullenly.

"Do not think so much on the dead, Serge! They are beyond the thoughts or cares of this world. Leave them their peace, so that you may have yours." She paused, then, and continued: "I am famished, and have not eaten since early morning. I must eat. Are you coming as well?"

He shook his head, and he watched her wander off to the rest of the camp alone. He wondered greatly about how she could be so unconcerned about all this. She was Schala, though, and maybe that was answer enough. Maybe those born of Zeal were hardier to the uncertainties of the heart and mind as well as to pain.

He too was hungry, but too sick at heart to eat. He looked at his hands. They bore no blood now: that he had washed off in the grim rally at the end of the battle. But they seemed stained to him even so. How many had he killed by them? A dozen, maybe? Perhaps two dozen? He could not rightly remember now, but their blood was on his hands regardless. Had he been right to take their lives? Certainly, yes, for would they have not done the same to many another without qualm? Ah, but there was the point of the matter. They were, even as he, not heartless. Driven to war through the desire for glory, or through greed, or even hope for honour and valour, they would near certainly have felt even as he did now. Sitting in some place with a doubting heart. Yet it was his hand that had denied them all such chances. Denied them their very lives. Was he some god to decide by his power who should live and die, and order the goings of the days of men? Certainly not; he had not chosen those who should die. It had been their fate to die by his hand, and so it had been God who had judged their deaths apt at that time. He, Serge, was then a pawn to the avenging sword of Almighty God. Was this, then, the purpose in his existence? To be the executer of the judgement of God? But was he himself not as deserving of such harsh justice as those dead on the far plain?

Serge shook his head in a feeble attempt to dispel such thoughts.

To continue to wonder and muse on such thoughts would surely drive him mad. He would simply have to trust blindly that fate was taking him down the correct course and that his deeds were fulfilling the grand plan that was laid out unseen.

He stood weakly, for the day had taken its toll heavily on his limbs, and they were weary. His slight wounds still burned as well. He looked at his arm, where the blade had cut him. A scar would linger, without a doubt.

He looked out to the red setting sun in the West. Somewhere, beneath its dimming rays, a thousand leagues away, Leena too would be now watching it set, but without these worries of war. He missed her gentle company greatly now in the midst of this harsh and perilous land. Ever he wished to be home, a desire that grew more potent the longer he was away. He was not born to be a steadfast warrior, like Crono or Janus. And neither was he wise in sage counsel as was Schala. In his heart he desired above all now to return to his peaceful home, by the sea.

But that was the heart of this matter, was it not? He was fighting so that his comrade, and the people of this vast land, might regain their peace and home. He could not simply abandon them to be wandering outlaws and people living in mortal fear, not while his strength could aid in victory. Yet ever to Leena was the greatest part of his heart given. To her would he joyfully return when at last his part had ended.

He wearily began walking, somewhat surprised that he did not falter to the ground. The day had been the most trying in months, and his legs cursed him bitterly for it.

He wandered to the encampment of tents, surrounded by a meagre palisade wall. The gate guard knew him by sight, and did not challenge him, so he freely went inside, glancing left and right at the tents. Most were empty now, and the people milled about, speaking in an odd meld of joy and sorrow about the battle. Those not there he could see wandering the battlefield, either seeking out loved ones lost to death, or stripping enemy warriors of their treasures and weapons. Tears would not be absent tonight, he knew.

He brushed aside the door to his tent and threw himself down on the mats that lay stretched out. They afforded him little comfort. Yet he felt slightly better inside, shielded in isolation from the outside world, where he did not watch the people. People very like to those he had so lately slain.

He slipped his fingers along the ever keen edges of the Masamune, the pale-gold sheen of which shone only dimly, as if lit by a faraway candle.

"Masa and Mune," he muttered in a low voice, "children of a sword of death, how can you stand this?"

"By the understanding of our destiny, master," the stern voice of Masa responded.

"Now then, are you alright?" Mune asked, some slight concern in his childlike voice.

"Me? Fine," Serge said, his words faltering uncertainly.

"Master, do not worry yourself so much over this day. How else should it have gone? Would you rather that you had died in the place of your enemies? Again I say, banish your concern."

Serge shook his head.

"I can't help it, though. I killed lots of men today. I took their lives, and destroyed whatever hopes and dreams they might have had. Banished their spirits to Zurvan, wherever that might be."

"You did it so that brighter hopes and the light could endure," Selinirë said in sage reply. "You did it not for your own glory, but to counter the domineering power of Porre. For life is choices, and those choices determine the future. True, you killed today. And you will kill again, so much I can foresee. Such is the life that has been set before you, child. Have compassion for your foes, but do not mourn them so much."

"But this isn't my dream; I don't want this! Am I a warrior?"

"Neither was it the dream of Melchior when he forged us. But what in this vast world is incorrupt? All bonds between living things are long since shattered and near irreconcilable. Between God and Man and beast there are walls that have, through ill choices, been raised. They are the consequences of the pride of Man, and Man's desire to forge their own destinies. The very dreams of your race are clouded with evil. But in them find solace. Wield us with confidence, and trust Schala and her wisdom. I tell you she and her brother are the last of the old world which had a deeper understanding of these things. Mighty were the children of Zeal, in all parts of soul, body, and mind. The wisdom of Schala sees far, further than you can comprehend; though she veils it, and appears not older than a maiden, she is mightier than aught other who walk the earth in these days, unless it is her brother."

Serge nodded, yet his doubts not allayed in the least. He dropped his head to the pillow, drowsiness sweeping over his mind.

"Serge?" A voice called out to him, startling him out of the sleep he had begun to fall into. He rose wearily, not a little upset over being denied sleep so, even as it had begun.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Crono has called a meeting of the captains..." the voice of Schala replied, "...in the commander's tent.

Curses, he had wanted to and needed to sleep. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he stumbled out of the tent, his head yet in a swoon over having being roused so suddenly out of his rest.

Schala was awaiting him, looking scarce less tired than he himself.

"Truly sorry, Serge. Crono insists on it. You alright?"

"Tired..." Serge said, pacing out into the cold air of the twilight. It cleared his head somewhat, and some of his weariness left him.

"Likewise," Schala said, then sighed. "But friendship and duty call. Come!"

She wandered off towards the large tent that served as the command post, Serge in her trail.

Inside were gathered most of the captains, seated at a great oak table. Crono himself, Janus, and two scarred warriors with grey streaked hair. These were the leaders of the archers and spearmen, the fourth and fifth legions of the army. Sir Hadrian, the captain of the knights of the first legion, was not there however. Neither was the leader of the third footman legion.

"Crono," Schala said in greeting as she walked in, for formality bowing slightly. She herself was the commander of the second legion of footmen.

He nodded to her as she sat, but said not a word. His eyes were sorrowful as he glanced about the table where they sat. Once Serge, too, had found his place at Schala's side, he began speaking.

"It seems that even our leadership has been ravaged by death. Lord Hadrian will not be joining us at this council. Neither will Lord Alakuret of the Tower."

The two commanders looked at each other with heavy hearts. It seemed that they had been old friends with the Lord Alakuret.

"Let us not weep for them. There will be time enough for tears if we win this war."

"If?" Schala said, frowning. "Let not the men hear such lack of faith from their leader."

Crono shook his head.

"I merely speak of what I see. Look out upon that field," he said, sweeping behind to where the battle plain lay beyond the tent, out of sight. "Tell me how many lie there dead."

He paused as another entered the tent.

"Ah, Sigurd, greetings," Crono said, welcoming him. His mood seemed at the least a little livened by seeing the boy. All the people had hailed the child a hero for his deeds, Crono not the least.

"My Lords," Sigurd replied, bowing deeply to each in turn.

"Take a place," Crono commanded. "Your actions this day ascribe you this much honour, at the least: to have a place in our council."

Sigurd quietly took seat next to Janus, who took a keen look at him. He was unsure as to why the child was to be part of the counsel. His feelings of enmity had been quenched with Sigurd's heroism, but he still felt some disquiet about him. Sigurd, for his part, could not quite understand the reasoning behind his presence, either. But no time was left to wonder at this, for Crono took up his speech again.

"My dear friends. In hindsight I see now that I have been acting somewhat foolishly, and against all my old wisdom."

Schala was about to speak words in counter to this, but Crono continued.

"Yes, Schala. We most definitely had the victory in the field today, and yet..." he paused, sighing, and dropped his weary hands to the table.

"...and yet many of my countrymen lie dead on that plain, strewn in the midst of their enemies. Their blood runs in red strains across the grass of their own fatherland!"

Schala spoke at that moment, interrupting even though Crono attempted futilely to continue.

"We all feel that way. Speak to Serge regarding this if you doubt me."

Serge nodded in agreement. But Crono shook his head.

"Yes, yes, I am certain. But what I am saying is that had it not been for the timely strike of Sigurd," he looked shortly over in the child's direction, "we may well have lost. Doom hung by a hair, and no prowess of men could undo it; it was only chance and fate, guiding the swordhand of a child, that saved us from ruin. And even should we not have been utterly destroyed, I would have surely perished, and the line of the kings of Guardia been broken as never before!"

Schala again spoke, much angered by Crono's light reckoning of their victory.

"Crono, you did all you could and much, I think, does Porre rue your sword this night. Moreover, not one of your people has lost any faith in you."

Crono shook his head sadly.

"No, I failed them this day. More died than should have; victory might have been swifter. I was cautious, planned out my movements, and acted with restrain. I thought to so do things carefully, averting heedless battle, as I had never done before. And this day is what it has brought to Guardia!"

He pushed his fist hard to the wooden table so that his knuckles paled, and anger showed on his face.

"You were correct, friend Janus, in what you said to me before, when we first came to Guardia. Once I _was_ fearless. Foolish perhaps, and yet fate was ever on my side, protecting and blessing my efforts. But not so now! With my loss of courage..."

"Your valour is in no way lessened!" Schala cried suddenly, shaking her head in disdain of his words.

Crono hardly saw, and continued speaking in despite of her.

"With my loss of courage and recklessness fate seems to have left me to my own. My hesitation had cost me the life of my beloved Marle, wounding me more deeply than any sword. Now it has nearly ruined my land; if I had struck first we should not have been surrounded by their accursed sigaldry. From this day forward I will not await them, but thrust forward my assaults with twice my old zeal. You say Porre rues this loss; then bitterly indeed will they speak of the coming days."

He spoke the last words so loudly that Serge started. He had been on the verge of drifting off to sleep, for he was spent with the day's fighting. Schala still attempted to restrain Crono, however.

"Crono, it might still be advisable to yet exercise some caution," she softly admonished him. But Crono dismissed her words with a sweep of his hand, and continued. Serge looked over at her, and saw that she now scowled bitterly, unhappy at Crono's tirade and unwillingness to but listen to her counsel. For in Crono the reckless fire of his youth had begun once more to burn, and he did not care for any wisdom, thinking it all to be folly. He cried:

"But in what manner did I do things in my youth? Did I pause to contemplate my past mistakes, or wonder on future days?" he looked over to Serge and Sigurd, "And in youth there is a zeal that can overcome great obstacles, as Sigurd proved this day. And Serge, I have heard, showed the same time and again in many a battle."

Serge admitted silently that he did feel slightly eager now, despite his many qualms about war. He would have to try to silence that dark excitement. He did not need his mind warring with itself.

Crono looked over to Sigurd and called:

"Sigurd!"

He turned to face Crono and nodded in respect.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"The captain of the third legion perished on the field today. You must take his command for the coming days of the war. Now..."

But Sigurd interrupted, much amazed by this, for he was still unsure even as to why he was in the council.

"Crono, my Lord, I do not think that I should. I am far too young and unlearned for this duty. There are many who are more apt to this than I. Lord Janus, for one, is far more accustomed to the commanding of men than I."

But Crono replied:

"No, Janus is my right hand and herald, and I wish him by my side. Together we are thrice as mighty as each alone, and so I would not gladly have us part in battle."

"What then," continued Sigurd, "of the other lords? Surely there is another. Serge, is he not a hero?"

At this Serge spoke for himself and said:

"I'm no captain or commander. "

Then Crono continued.

"Sigurd, I saw you in the battle today. You fought even as though there were a fire in your heart, and I would not have faced you lightly in that mood. Show me another of my people who can wields such sorcery as you, and I would make him captain in your stead. I can well see what you can accomplish, even if you cannot, for it seems that the same blood flows through our veins. You and I are of like spirit, and I know that if you deem yourself unworthy now it is but a passing thing: it is how I would have felt twenty years ago, before my adventure came upon me. Not till I understood my destiny did I rise to take command of the Seven. So I tell you that you have greater skills and worth in this than you understand; you are, after all, a sorcerer."

Sigurd sat back once again and remained quiet, not certain what would become of this, nor why he merited such service and honour from his lord.

And now Crono continued.

"I have decided we press forward our assault at first light tomorrow. We strike for the castle of Guardia at once, while the enemy is still fearful and on the retreat, for we must not lose this precious chance and zeal we have gained from victory."

Schala now stood, shaking her head so that her crimsoned hair shifted in among the gold as the flames of a fire; the clothes she wore, steeped in mud and dyed with dry blood, made her appear the more terrible, and at her rising Crono stopped to let her speak, for he could see well that she was angered with him.

"Crono, this is not youth. This is foolishness. What of the wounded who must be attended to?"

"We leave some to care for them; our army will still number three thousands at the least."

"So that is your master plan, then? To strike for the greatest fortress in the north undermanned and weary? Think on your youth more keenly, and you will remember that speed did not always avail you. Need I recall to your memory the day upon which you assaulted the Ocean Palace of Zeal? Use caution, I warn you, or else..."

Crono scowled in vehement anger.

"Else what, Schala? Do you think I fear death?"

Schala nodded grimly.

"If you do not, then you are a fool, for only they are utterly fearless. Know that you should fear, for surely this time there will be no chance of fate to resurrect you, as was your luck before."

Schala had now crossed her arms, and her eyes showed her flamed anger at his words. But he continued heedless of her mood.

"My life is worth no more to me than what I can accomplish with it. Sit, Schala, or leave this council if that is your choice!"

At this Schala clenched tight her teeth and fists in anger.

"You deign to order my coming and going or spurn my counsel? You who do not even claim lordship of that which is your right. Oh, you forget your precarious place, my friend. And speak not so lightly of me, child. Do not forget who I am, and address me as your servant"

To these words he replied:

"Am I a fool, Schala, that you think I have forgotten this?"

But she would not allow him to speak more, and raising a hand said in return:

"Yes, your heart bleeds. But think not in your pain that you are alone, and that you suffer more than many another. As you yourself have said, look upon the far plain of battle. Now take note of those who find their beloved perished. Mark their tears, and tell me if they are of lesser worth than yours. And do you not think that I, too, know the pain of death? Do you think that I do not know darkness of despair?"

"Schala," he began, but his words had lost their former strength, whereas her tone had begun to heighten to one of regal command.

"Silence!" she cried. "Crono, you are falling prey to your grief and anger. Look at me: I may appear as one young, but you know well that I am no youthful girl. I was once the eldest of the children of the Queen of Zeal. Did I not watch as my mother succumbed to the evil of Rothros, called Lavos? And was I not for the eternity outside of time joined with that selfsame darkness? It bore hate, and pain, and sadness as has no compare in this world, and I too had a part in its every grief! Ah, I ever curse that cruel day, when I fell into the vile Tesseract! What strange chance that was it that I, alone of all my kin, should have borne the judgement of God for the sins of my people. I, who at risk of my mother's cruel and terrible wrath spoke out against our unholy quest for immortal life. Yet I was the only one to achieve it, and finding that which I never yearned for, found it a curse beyond your reckoning, yea, beyond the reckoning of any mortal. For how can any of you comprehend a suffering that is eternal? You know only the finite; yet to me that eternity of sorrow I suffered yet echoes. So do not speak to me, Crono, Frey, even you hero of time, of such matters. I know them only too well, child! For that is what you are in my eyes; never forget! In that prison from which I could not escape it tortured and corrupted my very soul, bent to a will stronger than death."

"Yes, yes, Schala, but that was long ago; even as you so call it to be an eternity in time, so too was it an eternity ago, and surely you have forgotten it by now. Do not, in this council, recall things that happened so long ago. Do I need advice from the former princess of a downfallen kingdom that now is but a shadow and myth?"

"Do you think that my torment is lost to my memory?" she cried in furious anger. "I assure you, nothing is more present in my mind! For how can one truly ever forget such a thing as that? The dragon magic of the Chrono Cross broke the chains that bound me, but that shadow of evil is ever there in my heart, a brooding menace that I can never shake!"

Serge shuddered to think of the memory of her during battle. Is that whence that power, her fury, came? She now paced the room before Crono, her arms crossed angrily across her chest.

"Live with such a burden for but a day, and then mayhap we could speak as equals!"

And at this Serge stood up, desperate to calm his angry comrades.

"Kid! Isn't this the one thing that you would warn against? Wouldn't you say that arguing amongst ourselves is the absolute worst thing we could do?"

Janus glanced about at both Crono and Schala, shaking his head.

"You know, Serge has a true point there. You forget your own wisdom, sister."

Schala sighed, frowning ever so slightly. Then she smiled at Serge, her eyes brightening somewhat.

"Yeah, you're right. I am truly sorry, Crono my friend. It is only that I swore to help the four of us unto death, remember? And, the way you're going, you're just looking to kill yourself. Remember, your people. You are their greatest hope, and last true leader. They need you, and this overshadows your own will and grief."

Crono took a step back, his mood softening for an instant. He then sat back in his seat, nodding with understanding at her sodden softness.

"Ah, you speak wisely as ever. It is my grief for Marle that is overcoming me. And, I begin to doubt this quest of mine."

"Yet I still think that speed is paramount. And as for my people...they could make do without me, if the need came, I deem."

Sigurd shook his head, finally speaking up once more.

"My Lord, I know otherwise. Those were dark years without a king. We need you very much."

"That is what you may think but, no, there are other hopes. If I were to die, others might rise to lead and command our people."

Schala frowned, a sudden understanding seeming to be sparked in her keen mind. She glanced about the others in the room, but they had not noted the words as she had.

"Whaddya mean by that?" she asked, her uncertainty betrayed in her tongue.

Crono looked at her with hollow eyes fraught with contemplation...

"Truly nothing," he said, seeing that he had spoken words he had not intended to say out loud. "It is nothing to concern yourselves with, and is only the worries of a captain. This war is a havoc in my mind."

Schala looked at him inquisitively, a small smile crossing her face. She could read more into his words and eyes than the others, and certainly more than he had intended.

"Hold for a moment!" she said. "What is it you mean by that. I beg you tell me; already I think I understand somewhat."

"Schala!" Crono cried, silencing her. "Neither here nor now, I beg of you."

She continued to smile however, her eyes deep in thought. Serge looked at her, his expression questioning her, but she said not a word.

Finally after a long while she returned her gaze to Crono, comprehension in her eyes, laughed lightly.

"Yes, it certainly follows reason. But I understand your uncertainty. Regarding this I will talk to you later. But take heart. I think you are correct in your assumptions."

Janus stood up from his chair, slightly angered by this enigma.

"What is this, Crono? Schala?"

But Schala fixed a stern gaze on him, and he sat down once more, scowling darkly. Indeed, Serge too wondered greatly about what had passed so mysteriously and wordlessly between Crono and Schala, and exchanged a mystified look with Sigurd. He shrugged as it eluded him. There was no use pressing the matter. Whatever it was, it wasn't its time to be revealed.

It was long before their deliberations finally ended. It was finally decided that the assault upon the fortress of Guardia would wait several days, both until the wounded were attended to, and until siege weapons were prepared. For, though Crono had at first thought to take the castle by sudden storm, he was soon swayed from such thoughts by the advice of his friends which he heeded wisely. When they at long last stepped from the command tent, the stars were already in full bright array, the moon glowing pale in the night sky. Though the day had been full of sorrow and pain, the people were rejoicing for their victory. A great fire had been made in the very centre of the encampment, and round this the people danced and sang, eating and drinking, attempting to find joy amidst sadness.

Serge smiled at this display of hallowed tradition, for it reminded him much of his own home where things long remembered were looked upon with reverence. And so it quelled some of his ever present homesickness. The people danced to the lively tunes of wood flutes playing the ancient songs of Guardia, remembered through the generations from ages long past, perhaps even from old Rome herself. Though it was different from his own land, Serge had no trouble joining the people in their merrymaking. He amused the people with the quick seaside dances of his village, most certainly ill-placed alongside the sorrowful notes that echoed from the Guardian flutes.

Crono, too, was there, as were Schala and Janus. Crono and Janus did not join Serge in the revelling, for Crono was content to watch, glad to see the people so enlivened, and the wizard was never a man who cared much for celebration. Schala, however, mingled with the people as much as she might. She shared dances with the people in the Guardian tradition, but often continued on her own with light steps that seemed to flow like a tongue of fire about the space. To those who watched she appeared to be an angel, descended and veiled, for her eyes were like stars. These graceful dances, remembered by her from her ancient days as princess of Zeal, caused all the people to pause in wonder, for no such dances had been seen for thousands of years, being born themselves of some magic. Finally she moved alone about the fire, her silhouette a haunting ghost of some ancient time, long lost in the shadows of history. Serge too was entranced by her, for he had never seen her enchantments put to any other use than war, and for a time his heart forgot its disquiet.

After a time she paused, and stood still before the great fire. Then all thought she had ended, and began to rise. Yet now she began to sing, in such haunting tones that all the people once more sat rivetted, for her voice was as though it were of the very muse of heaven. She sung of ancient days, of Zeal in its peace and glory. Her voice echoed through the clear night, calling to mind a time without war, and the people that heard her were consoled in their sorrow.

Upon hearing of his ancient home, sung of by his sister, Janus too smiled. And, to Serge's certain amazement, he joined her, and sung his own lays and idylls of Zeal, his dark and deep voice an opposite to her softer and lighter singing. Yet they flowed together as but two parts of a whole, and it seemed to those gathered that they saw Zeal appear once more before them in the night. Noble lords of magic, fair ladies of enchantment, and wise masters of knowledge. The images flowed in their minds as a recent memory, and not a few wept out of love of its beauty. For Zeal above the clouds was more fair than any land either before or after, and the lore and wisdom of its people was great.

And so they sang far into the night, of the shining citadel of Zeal, where the Queen sat in her majesty, ruling over the eternal kingdom. And they told tales of the city of Kajar1, where the greatest of the minds of Zeal did experiments to further their knowledge of the world. And of the city of dreams, Enhasa, where rest cured all.

And yet, long though those tales lasted, their end came at last, though all were sorry to hear them end. But the two were not willing now to recount their land's fall into darkness, and so ended.

As they left the space before the burning fire the people parted to let them pass, though not a few called out to them, thanking them for their tales. For they now saw that these two were not merely warriors of might and skill, but also magi of great wisdom and forgotten lore. When at last they broke from the people, and wandered out into the clear darkness away from the fire, Serge rushed up to her.

"Hey, Kid, wait up!" he called and she turned, hearing his approach.

"Ah, Serge. It is you. That was a thing well done, dancing in celebration among them. It endears you to them."

"Well, likewise," he answered. "I've never seen you sing or dance like that. That was from Zeal?"

She nodded.

"There is some part of me that is drawn to things of ancientry yet. The part that is Schala, that is. The second was song a melody I have long remembered from my childhood, and I have ever loved it above all others. In ancient Zeal it was called Melraset Selinetha; that is Radical Dreamers in our tongue."

Janus turned to Serge, looking down on him from his towering height.

"As for you Serge, you made a fine fool of yourself."

Serge did not answer, but laughed a little to himself at the wizard's harshness; that was simply the man's way.

"Zeal must have been wonderful, though," Serge said.

Janus breathed heavily into the chill night air, sending fading pillars of smoke into the air, scarcely visible in the pale moonlight.

"Yes...for a time. Until the darkness."

And he spoke no more, and neither did Schala. But such reminisces of the past were soon put aside, for they all knew that tomorrow would bring enough toil of its own. For though the battle was won, they were victorious for but a day, and the war was not over yet.

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)


	16. Warfires

CHAPTER XV

**WARFIRES

* * *

**

The morning found Serge in a much changed state of mind from the night before. It seemed that his sleeping mind had found a certain peace all of his reason could not.

He arose feeling hardly as disquieted as he had had the night before. His mind felt unchained as it had not for any day he could remember for months, from back before this journey began. Had the final seal finally been lifted then, by battle when nothing else could? He shook the last of the sleep from his mind and looked about his tent. He was anxious, to be sure, but more than a little eager. His hands caught up the hilt of the Masamune, and he looked upon the sword with changed eyes from the night before. Then it had been the instrument of his duty, a symbol of the thing that he was compelled to do against his heart's will. Yet now he felt himself loving the touch of the metal, feeling pride course through him as he remembered what it was to be master of this holy sword. His will and heart had returned undiminished, and nearly nothing short of death would be able to shake it from him.

He crept from the tent, shaking his lengthy hair from his eyes. For the most part it was still the dark shade of blue it had been a month before when he had left his village, but not wholly. It had grown somewhat, and was beginning to darken to its natural black shade. He took his red band from his tent and tied it fast about his head, keeping his locks aside. He no longer wore it as he had once, covering his whole head, but, rather, tied it simply as a band. An altogether grim look, he realized suddenly with an inner laugh. Unshaven, long hair only half dyed azure, and the bearer of a sword ten thousand years ancient; he had not looked at himself with such eyes. There was a certain power and fear in appearing so grim and fell (even as the ancient Spartans had held); and it made him appear far older than his eighteen years. A coursing thrill of power swept through his veins as he knew how few and little could truly stand against his wrath and sword. When was it that he had he forgotten quite how mighty he was?

As he crossed Janus' path he the wizard laughed and said:

"Well now, someone has found a different spirit this morning."

"You could tell?" Serge asked, brandishing the Masamune about. How long had it been since he had done it so lightly? Far too long, he understood, now. Not since his great defeat of the Evil beyond time, when he had borne it to triumphant victory. Ah, those sweet days of forgotten memory, when he had been great among warriors, child though he was. But even the glory of it had been dimmed to his memory in the past months. He took careful account of his heart, now. Indeed, he still felt a wish to be home, and for peace. But now it was joined by an equal feeling of joy over the high calling into which he had fallen, and by his warrior's spirit of strength and certainty over his own purpose. Even as he had felt toward the eve-tide of his adventures.

Janus laughed again, his ringing voice shattering the joyful thoughts that enwound Serge.

"Certainly," Janus said. "I would be a poor wizard if I could not discern strength from weakness. And that I have been ever apt to measure. Yesterday you were beset by doubt and weak. Today your walk and glance tells me otherwise. I trust this is not a passing thing?"

"No," Serge answered with certainty and a grim smile.

"Very good. We have an errand today, unless my foresight misses its mark. Not five moments ago a horseman rode into the encampment. I think he brings tidings of a raiding band of troops, though I cannot be sure. I was sent at once to summon you."

Together they strode to the outskirts of the war camp. Serge could hardly keep from marking that Janus' voice seemed to hold far more respect than it had had before. Though he had not understood it in past days, he was now certain that Janus had inwardly scoffed at all the doubts that had swept Serge, a thing only made clear in afterthought.

The day itself was grim and drear, though perhaps this was fitting for the morning following a battle. The memory of an overnight rain lingered still in the air, and the ground was cold and damp at his feet. Thankfully the wind blew from the east, and kept the smell of decay out of the camp; the battlefield was not a pleasant sight, and did not smell any better than it appeared to the eyes.

When they found Crono he was in earnest speech with a dismounted horseman. Emblazoned upon the man's shield was the device of a single grey circle on a field of green.

"A messenger?" Serge asked as he came upon Crono. "He's injured," he said, seeing that the shield the man bore was bloodied and shorn; likewise the armour in which he was arrayed was rent and scored. Blood shone on the pale metal and from wounds beneath.

"It is nothing, my Lord," the knight said in reply to Serge. "As I have been saying to the King, Stoneshield is besieged. A company of Porre dragoons, one hundred strong, is at our gates. We have taken refuge behind the walls, but Stoneshield is a walled city only, and no fortress. We cannot hold off so many at length."

"Horses, swiftly!" Crono cried, and at once two pages sped away. He then turned to Janus.

"We cannot raise a force to match with enough speed to break their attack, but through our spellcraft we may compel them into abandoning their siege."

Janus nodded in understanding.

"Who rides, then? I will most certainly take your side, and I think Serge as well, for he is finding himself more inclined to drawing blood today."

Crono now took a glance at Serge, and nodded with a smile on his lips.

"Ah, so it was that your hero's spirit never left at all, but only slept. Well, bid it good morning! It is needed this day. Yes, you will ride by my side with Janus. And Schala. Schala!" he called. She must certainly have been near, for she came forward a moment later. It was apparent that she had expected this riding already. A sword was at her side, and she wore her grim battle-mantle, uncleaned of the stains of the last day.

"Yes," she trailed, and took up a solemn stare to the south. "Stoneshield burns with siege fires. We must be swift."

The four rode off some swift minutes later. It had been a sudden rising for Serge, and an even more quick departure. But he understood the dire need, and that was balm enough for his temper. The wind from the speed of his stallion's run traced through his hair, and in joy he smiled.

But it was a joy that turned to sombre bitterness that afternoon. Even before they came upon the city, they could nose the reek of the fires: Stoneshield was burning. As they came around the last hill, the sight was laid bare before their eyes, and Crono cursed their fortune. They were too late: the tall towers were wreathed in dark smoke that trailed to the sky and away, the last reminder of fires that had scorched the city. The limestone walls were blackened, and the gate lay in ruin below the hollow archway. Not a sound was heard in the gate square as they rode cautiously in.

"No soldiers," Serge said after a time. "Not one."

Crono nodded his head in silent agreement.

"Neither can I see any. Yet there is enough proof of their having been here. See!"

And he pointed to the far edges of the square. Here and there among the ruin lay the bodies of the slain people of the town. Knights in ruined armour, men in dusty peasant garb, and the women and children.

"These weren't soldiers, mostly," Serge said, leaping from his horse and looking about the death filled square. "These were the peasantry that didn't even come to fight with you."

"Thus attempting to appease the wrath of Porre," Janus said. "The fools. It did little to help them."

The other three leaped from their mounts, and began seeking amidst the dead for any that might yet be faintly alive, but one were. Either through fire or sword, spear or rifle, all were dead to the child.

Crono swept out his sword and in anger struck off the crown of a stray pole of timber.

"So, too late, then. Hours or minutes, but dead is dead, and our haste has been in vain...Halt!" he called suddenly. At the far verge of the square, a man could be seen. He coward fearfully, and with good reason, for he was a soldier of Porre.

Crono beckoned him over, but the soldier had a wild fear in his eyes, and sped for the gate. From his horse Crono took a strung bow and, with a calm yet fell eye, set an arrow to it, drew it back, and let it fly. It was true as to his intent, and struck where he had shot for, in the man's thigh. With a cry of pain he faltered to the ground, still attempting to flee as a best he might across the earth.

With relentless steps, Crono overtook him. Raising him up by his hair he drew a level gaze with the stricken soldier.

"Deserter?" he asked with a certain chill wrath to his voice.

The man nodded quickly.

"Yes. I am. Yet I took no part in this, and rather ran. I swear to you I ran before they did this. I'm Guardian, and not of Porre. I couldn't follow their orders."

At these words Crono relented his grip and let the man fall.

"But a traitor for joining their ranks even so. You fight for the enemies of your country!" he said to the man, who nodded and began weeping.

"I had though Guardia would never rise again," he stammered between tears.

Crono sighed.

"There were many days when I thought the same. Have you taken any of the lives of your countrymen?"

The man shook his head.

"No, never. I did not take part in today's battle, and have for a fortnight been stationed at the bridge. But Captain Wedgal is a cruel man, and speaks often with the soldiery of the Black Wind. Two nights ago he gave sudden orders that we march on this town. And so you see what has become of that, though again I swear that I deserted from the ranks before the battle was begun."

"You have not slain your brethren," Crono said. "And my arrow has been the blood-price of your treachery."

He glanced down at where the shaft still held in the flesh, bleeding fiercely, and said:

"Let no guilt of this rest on you. I, your uncrowned king, forgive you."

"King?" the man stammered, and it seemed his heart would fail, for his face paled to a ghostlike shade, and he threw himself at Crono's feet.

"I am an errant servant, my liege. From this day, I will be the truest of the children of this land, and hold you my only captain."

"We shall see, if Guardia ever rises again," Crono said. "Yet other things need doing this day. Tell me now, that you may atone for your servitude: Which way did your company ride, that we may bring vengeance down upon the heads of those that did this?"

Gladly the man spoke, his tears not lessening, though a smile touched on his lips.

"West, through the woods, and to the plains beyond. They are riding to the muster at the bridge again where, I have heard, they will await the coming of the armies of Porre; they say that that shall be at least a fortnight."

"Very well," Crono replied. "I will send you back to camp with Lord Janus."

He strode back to where the horses stood. Janus knelt by the body of a brown clad man, contemplating him carefully.

"Why did they destroy Stonshield?" he asked of a sudden. "Why this raid and town? What does it hold of value to their armies? It only stands to reason that they would not so recklessly attack if they could not reap some benefit."

Crono shook his head.

"Not a thing that an army would care for. It was a town of learning and scholars. See this tower here?"

He raised his hand to the stone foundation of the building beside which Janus knelt. From its roof a pinnacled spire rose.

"This was a great monastery."

"That I can see," Janus muttered to himself, returning his gaze to the man who lay dead before him. His clothes were drab brown and of rough weaving. His hair was trimmed so that it set a ring about his head. A sword wound through the chest had slain him.

"But why?" Janus repeated, rising.

"To make us feel wrath, Janus, whereby we might cease caution and cunning, and lose the zeal of our recent victory." Crono said, beginning to tire of the questions. "This I need not tell you; it is an old stratagem that you yourself put into use not a few times. To lose this town is a great loss for my land."

"Perhaps," Janus muttered. "And yet maybe you do not see clearly. How have a hundred men have destroyed a city of a thousand?"

"A town largely of peasants, Janus," Crono replied. "Not many were the knights here; the lord of the town and his kin. Twelve swords at best."

"But, see!" the wizard said, sweeping his hand to where the dead man lay. His left hand was death-clawed at the dirt, and at their tips a vague drawing sat in the dust.

"What does this mean?" Janus asked, kneeling beside it, and taking it under careful study. But to discover its meaning was useless. Whatever it was had been mostly washed away in the tramping of feet.

Schala peered past him.

"Janus, my heart feels quickened. It appears odd, yet perhaps is nothing. Crono has said Stoneshield was a place of learning; perhaps this symbol was sacred."

She knelt beside it and shook her head with uncertainty.

"It is no cross. Neither is it any other sign I can discern. Janus, you know of such things: can you see any meaning in it that I cannot?"

"No," he replied. "Yet it is faded much; it could be near anything."

Serge too came over now, looking strangely at the place.

"It looks like nothing to me," he said. It appeared to be only a confusion of curved lines. Yet as his eyes touched it, and he spoke, he suddenly felt himself lighten, and his reason left him. In a flash he saw an image, but was uncertain. A devouring darkness swept past his sight. And then barely whispered words: "Es ros asant tino achosal. Hael es diom adeaio. Es diom Kuro! Aith henamet il es Ander!"...and then it cleared, and his mind was certain again.

"Aith henamet il es Ander..." he murmured in a last echo.

"Beware the South?" Janus said uncertainly. "As if we do not know this. But what is this, Serge? You speak in the Zeal tongue, which you do not know. But if this is prophecy, it is unavailing."

"I don't know," Serge answered, having no understanding himself. "Darkness, and death. But what it has to do with anything here." He looked about and said: "It's probably just that. This place, all this death, is a little unsettling."

Crono himself was now pacing, anger building against those enemies who had been so ruthless.

"Look, Serge!" Crono cried with blazing eyes. "Look well at the fabled might of Porre. Their matchless power to kill women and children, the old and the blind. Ha! Great indeed, they say? I say we show what a bitter vengeance they have sown against themselves!"

Serge stood at the side of a slain young child. This people was foreign to him, but still his heart felt greatly turned against Porre. Such deeds went beyond the needs of war, and spoke of a heartless cruelty that ran deep.

"We're going after them?" Serge asked.

Crono gave him a strange glance, as if wondering at the need to even ask such a question. Without a reply he leaped upon his horse, drawing the reigns tight into his fists.

"I am hunting them down without mercy," he said and looked at Schala, who, too, had mounted her steed, as if looking for her to say some words of wisdom, warning against such a rash act of vengeance. But even as she had appeared to Serge during the battle, a strange light hid behind her eyes, and she gave no warning. Rather she smiled, almost wickedly, with a near laugh escaping her.

"If that is your will, I will not gainsay it, and beg you to allow my company, for I think that you may have need of my blade before long. Serge, here are two paths: choose which seems the better."

Serge nodded his agreement to the first; he felt more inclined to the company of Schala and Crono than Janus, for he felt uncertain as to his duties should he return to camp. And so the three set off west, while Janus bore the injured soldier to the encampment. If he was ill-favoured over this, he did not show it. But the command of the army was granted him till Crono's return, so perhaps this lightened his mood.

The hunt was longer than they had looked for, however. The main host, it seemed, had splintered, and Crono chose to follow the smallest group, which was likely the officers and leaders of the assault. But these, they soon found, had moved swiftly. And so the first day was fruitless, and found them making a scant camp in the cold, with only what slight provisions they had taken for the day to take meal from. And, worse, they had little in the way of shelter, and so the night that passed was a harsh one, with only a small warming fire to keep them company. They rose early the next day, even as the touch of dawn was upon the far hills, so as to shorten the space between them and those they pursued. Then finally, as night had set upon the land, they came upon the firelight of the enemy camp (and much relieved they were, for they were hungry and weary, and even Crono would not have pressed the chase another day.)

Dismounting from their horses, they crawled slowly across the chill grass of the ground towards the small depressed enclave near the eaves of a forest where the enemy was encamped.

"How many?" Serge asked, coming up behind the other two.

"Three score. Twenty riflemen, and a handful of swordsman," Crono whispered. "Not for trifling, but still not a great fear."

"Crono?" Schala asked with wise concern. "Is your anger shadowing your judgement? Must I remind you of their rifles? This is no field-battle; here they will see an enemy on but one side. Even with the sorcery of us three, I think it would go hard with us."

Crono did not answer at once, but Serge saw his gaze darken, and his breathing deepen in rage.

"Schala, these are the very men who led the ruthless assault upon Stoneshield. What sort of leader would my people account me if I shied away from dealing vengeance upon their enemies? If you think it foolishness, you need not take part. I will do what I may on my own."

And before either Schala or Serge could stay him he stood, tall upon the edge of the shallow vale. He drew his sword and held it at his side with a menacing look upon his face.

The soldiers saw him quickly enough, and a dozen rifles were raised in sudden reply, their locks clicking to the ready. None were afraid, for who, even among magicians, could ward against such an array?

Then Crono spoke angrily, his wrathful voice at setting some slight fear, at least, into the hearts of the men sitting in the vale:

"You have slain my people with your murderous ways, and now need bear the burden of judgement!"

At this Schala and Serge stood, and now there were three that the enemy needed looking to.

But still the commander of the troop was unafraid. He stepped forward, disdain over the harsh words plain upon his lips, and said in reply:

"Finely crafted words for a fool. Now leave, unless you wish me to deal with you likewise."

With a sign of his hand the remainder of the soldiers, those who had not yet taken up arms, bore up their weapons; all flints were drawn back.

Yet Crono did not waver, and his anger grew all the more fearsome at these haughty words.

"Have you then no remorse for your deeds? None whatsoever?" he said, in a voice of mingled rage and disbelief. He had at least thought that they would profess some innocence, or perhaps excuse their deeds with duty. But the commander was without doubt a cruel man.

"Peasants and rebels," he said. "As are you, no doubt. Yet you are fortunate, for we are in no mood for a battle this night, and wish only for our peace."

And now, at this utter disdain, Crono's anger was kindled to consuming wrath. His eyes blazed to star-like brilliance, and the sword he held in his hand was as though it were forged from the rainbow itself, for it shone undiminished in the night.

"Tartarus grant you the peace you have earned!" Crono cried, and lifted his sword high.

A full half of the enemy stepped back a pace; but still their guns were aimed true, and so the cruel captain was still fearless. And he now knew his foe to be a sorcerer, and was wise enough not to trifle with that sort. At once he cried:

"Kill them. Open fire!"

With that command the echo of a dozen rifles splintered in the night air.

But too dark was Crono's wrath for even that dire assault; he leaped forward even as the shot did, and cast his arms outward. Lightning lit the vale with its ghostly light, and thunder shook the air and ground: the shots recoiled and fell harmless to the earth.

And now, at last, the enemy commander paled, for such power the man had not expected neither in this nor any foe. He stumbled a step backward, and would have fled, but the fear that rose in him was so potent it overclouded his reason. Crono, for his part, looked to his right and left, at Serge and Schala, and said:

"This vengeance is mine for my people: do not aid me in this."

But his voice seemed strange, darker and more grim than it had ever been before, and echoed with an almost immortal power. Even Schala felt fear at crossing him, and retreated to allow him his will.

Crono strode down the vale-side, his sword fast in his outstretched hand. He came upon the men who now broke and ran from his approach as best they might, having abandoned all thought of opposing him. And now the light that surrounded Crono grew to dazzling brilliance. As Serge and Schala looked on in wonder the dark clouds high overhead wheeled and gathered like those of a glowering storm. Crono raised his shining sword blade high, and at once a winding snake of forked lightning leaped from the canopy, striking both blade and earth all about; Crono was unharmed, but smoke rose from the stricken earth.

The commander was the first to die, struck through the heart by Crono's sword. Still the others tried at fleeing, but they were caged in by lightning that played about the dale: it was death to cross it, and death to stay. For Crono silently walked to each man, heedless of any cries for mercy or pity, and slew them in their turn, at each stroke saying: "Such is the vengeance of Guardia."

When the last of the men lay dead, the fires of the light subsided and Crono's eyes ceased flaring. And as they did, he stumbled to the ground, spent. Serge and Schala came to his side at once, wonder and fear still touching them.

"That was a trifle too harsh, I believe," Crono muttered as he tried at standing. But his legs did not allow him, and he faltered to the ground once again. "Yes, indeed, far too harsh."

Schala looked at him gravely.

"Not merely harsh, but perilous, and fraught with darkness. Do you wish to wander the same evil paths of vengeance that my brother once did? Such a deed is not becoming of a hero."

Crono laughed weakly.

"It was my own will, Schala, I cannot hide it. And for better or worse it is done, now. Ai, all who have ventured too near to Lavos harbor such malice within them: and I was once destroyed by him, or do you forget?"

He rose to his knees.

"Nevertheless, it is not a proud deed, and I will remember it bitterly."

Schala looked at him warily, as did Serge.

"That was quite something, though" Serge said, still amazed. "I've never seen magic like that before: it was like the sky was at your command."

Crono nodded.

"Perhaps it was, but only perforce to my will. Schala speaks truly," and now his voice sombred, as if he finally understood how darkly the deed had been done, "this is not a hero's deed. Come, let us be off."

Carefully they led him to his horse, which he mounted slowly.

"Let us not speak of this again," he said, casting a mournful gaze of the dale. "And let this be a warning to us, against the power we wield."

But it seemed to Serge that these words were more for Schala than for him.

----

They returned as morning was rising two days later. Even as they entered the eves of the forest of Guardia, they heard the unmistakable sounds of battle greet their ears. From the sharp crack of guns, heard echo even in the far reaches of the forest many miles from the castle, they could discern that the defenders were putting up a stout defence. The entire of the war camp had been removed from the Truce fields, and assembled in a great clearing near the castle, amidst the Great Wood of Guardia. Crono sought out Janus (whom he found at the edge of the camp, overseeing the coming and going of war-companies), while the other two went to eat and quell their hunger.

"How goes the siege?" Crono asked, striding up behind the wizard.

Janus turned sharply.

"Rather, how goes it with you? The last I left you, you rode forth in anger. Now there is blood on your sword," he said (though when he said this Crono had not unsheathed his sword.)

Crono did not answer at once, and when he did, he simply said: "They have had their vengeance."

But he did not tell of what had chanced.

Even so Janus nodded, and perhaps read much of what lay unspoken. For he understood the ways of vengeance all too well: they had been his lifeblood for near to twenty years. For a moment he said nothing, then took up a long gaze to where the castle sat unseen beyond the trees of the forest. Then speaking said:

"But the battle, Crono...It could hardly be worse! I have counted the loss of three of the enemy on the walls; the number we have lost in doing so is more than two dozen. I am sorry, my friend, but I can do no better."

Crono started at these tidings, for if proud Janus was confessing difficulty, then things must be dire indeed.

"That is a sturdy fortress that they hold," he continued. "Their archers and gunners patrol the walls, day and night regardless. I swear they have the eyes of hawks. We cannot get within a hundred yards of them without being hailed with a storm of shot and darts."

"Is there no spell you can work? No dark magic?" Crono asked.

Janus shook his head bitterly.

"No, and yes. To be potent enough to breach those battlements I must gain the walls. It is well beyond even my strength to assault the defences through distant sorcery, unless you know the secret spells that bind the stone to the foundation."

Crono shook his head and said: "The foundations are laid with unenchanted stone; no wizardry binds them."

"Very well then," Janus said. "And, between their riflemen and accursed wizards, may they suffer in hell, I must concede I have not been able to come nearer than a hundred paces of the wall myself."

He scowled fearsomely.

"And I have the faint suspicion that they are shooting for me especially."

He swept his cloak about, and it was rent with not a few rather large holes.

Crono laughed at the wizard's amazement over this.

"Little wonder, my friend. Or, did you fail to see your standing amidst the men?"

Janus glanced about. He was a full head taller than those around him, and twice as great in bulk.

"Yes," he muttered, then continued saying: "But what would you have me do? I've been holding out here for two days now, waiting for your to return," he scowled, "playing war games with these Porre fools, and losing I might add. That, above all else, is something I ill endure. I will do so no longer: this is your war, and your strategy is needed above all else."

Crono said nothing, but knew the truth of the matter as well as any.

"Maybe," he muttered as he looked about, seeing the companies of warriors running hither and thither about the space. Some were wounded from the last assault, while others were to try their luck at the next.

"Sound a retreat," Crono said suddenly. "Call every man to return to the camp."

Janus nodded shortly, and called to the seneschal of the camp to do so.

"This assault is fruitless," Crono said after a moment, taking up an aimless pace with Janus at his side. "I should have foreseen this: that castle cannot be overcome through any might of assault. And we need siege engines: are they prepared yet, as I commanded?"

Janus was about to reply, but at that moment Sigurd strode up. His rough-sewn peasant clothes were in disarray and bore the marks of battle. The armour he bore, a hauberk of light linked rings and a shield, was likewise stained. Across his face and limbs were the red tracings of new wounds. As he spoke it was plain that they pained him, for he ceaselessly glanced.

"My Lords," he greeted the two, and bowed shortly. "My division is hard pressed; twice now have I led my men against the fortress, as I have been ordered to do," and then he paused, taking up a grave and uncertain look. "But if I may say so, I fear it is a futile effort. Ever we lose many of our people, more than we take of the enemy. We are disheartened, my Lord Crono, and I not the least."

"The retreat has been sounded, Sigurd," Janus replied before Crono could. "It would be wise to heed it and take what rest you may while peace lasts. But never, child, speak of our effort as futile while you captain men: you must act as though the very walls of Hades are surmountable under your command, and dissemble your fear."

Whatever Sigurd truly thought of this reproach remained hidden, and he merely said: "As you will," and turning, left.

"That is a strange child," Janus said when Sigurd had left from earshot. "He is a fine commander, at least for one so young, but not one I would have chosen for such a post. But I must admit, grudgingly, that he is not a weakling in the use of his magic, and a worthy swordsman in his own right. If he outlives this war, he may one day become a mighty warrior in your hall."

"You have a much changed appraisal of him then at your first meeting, then," Crono said. "But there is much that he has yet to reveal to us, I think, and to himself, for that matter."

"How so?" Janus asked. He was still curious as to Crono's admiration for the young soldier. It was true that he showed much valour, but there were many others as well who showed no less bravery.

"We shall see," Crono replied shortly. "Whatever may be, mighty blood runs in him. He seems like to a prince in valour, does he not?"

Janus shook his head.

"A prince? I would think not. That is high praise for a fisherman. Even one with so mighty a sword."

"A prince of fishermen, then!" Crono answered in return with a laugh.

Janus looked about at the sound of a distant horn that echoed dimly between the trees of a sudden.

"Ah, that is the signal. Come, Crono, the meeting tent is this way. Let us see if you are as fine a strategist as a hero."

They took up walking at a slow pace crossways across the camp, to where the tent lay.

"Is my sister back as well?" Janus asked.

Crono nodded.

"Yes, we have all returned safely enough."

Janus turned to face him.

"But I am forgetting! You were asking about the siege weapons."

"Yes, I was," Crono said, "How is the construction I ordered proceeding?"

Janus shook his head, bitterly.

"Slowly, if that. No one here has the skill to make such engines of war. Mangonels, ballistae...what do these people know of such things? We have few of either. I couldn't even take a border post without a greater array of weapons."

Crono shook his head. A sad smile crossed his lips.

"Ah, it is times such as these that I wish to have Lady Ashtear amongst us once again. She would surely have engineered some mighty counters to those Porre weapons. Her science outmatched these infernal inventions of Porre by as much as they are beyond us. If she were here now we, not they, would have the advantage. But it is pointless to wish for the unattainable," and he paused for a moment, then said: "Yet we must have those weapons, Janus! Prevail upon the craftsman. Five days from now I want such a number as will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies."

At that they said no more, and came to the tent where the captains gathered. Here there were assembled, other than they: Serge, Schala, Sigurd, and a small group of the other captains of the divisions. Of these most were injured in some manner, attesting to the bitter and futile battle that had been waged for the last two days.

"I am loath to do so, but I will agree with captain Sigurd," Crono said as he sat. "In despite of your certain valour in this assault, it is futile."

For the most part the captains nodded in agreement.

"An understatement, to be sure," one, a certain lord by the name of Medesior, said, "Forty seven. That is the tale of men I have lost, Lord. We grow disheartened by the hour, and what courage we gained from the field victory is vanished. I pray your guidance will better our state."

"In regards to that, lord Medesior, we shall see. But the matter at hand is this: Porre has been slow to ready a force to come to the aid of their besieged comrades. That is both good and ill: good, for it gives us more time than I had hoped for; ill, because it means when they do finally march north, it will be with such numbers that we will not have any hope of victory. But for now, I will call it good. And to this end, I will need no less than two score siege weapons in five days time."

"Crono, that may be an impossibility, no matter what your hope," Janus said darkly.

"I is not hope it is need, and so will be!" Crono responded striking the table, resolve in his voice. "On the fifth day we assault the castle gate."

This set the captains astir, and at last Schala spoke for them:

"Bold, to be sure, Crono. Now if you are through startling us, what else do you plan in this? For alone with such an army as you have it is a foolish, and that you are not."

He paused for half a moment, then smiling said:

"The castle is nearly one thousand years old, raised by the first king of Guardia when Rome still held sway in the east. So it is that the walls have begun to weaken in many places. It is at these that we must press our assault, and take the castle itself. Yet, as Lord Janus has told me, we cannot come within one hundred paces of them and live. We must therefore keep their watch busy in other places, while we try this. And the gate is our best hope to do so."

The lord who had spoken before now stood again.

"But my Captain, will not Porre see trickery in this? None would send an entire army into such a perilous onslaught if there were not some guile; surely Porre will know this, and be all the more wary for it," he said, at which Crono replied with a cunning smile:

"So it may be. But what does it matter? Even if they know it to be a ploy we will have forced their hand, and they will at needs fortify the gate. But the error in this will be greater than they foresee, I am sure..."

"And we possess the ability with which to bring down the wall?" the lord said, still in doubt, "The infernal cannons of Porre can destroy stone, but we do not have such a weapon."

But at this Janus spoke:

"What need are cannons when we have sorcery? Rest assured, captain, I can render the walls dust, if I can only gain them."

The lord nodded in understanding, saying:

"Very well, you may hold me and those under my command ready."

"The entirety of this stratagem is quite simple," Crono continued. "Once they send their troops to fortify the gate, the wall will be taken down. Then we need simply march with all speed upon the breach. I think that they will be taken unawares by this, and not have time to rally their troops to counter an assault from within their very walls. Moreover, if we can strike swiftly enough they will not be able to retreat into the fastness of the inner keep: we will have split their forces in two, and the battle should be easier. But, as you can see, from beginning to end this stratagem relies on the destruction of the wall."

All the captains nodded, for the plan seemed good to them as well.

Crono then looked to Sigurd.

"Sigurd, I must take you away from your command. I have a far more pressing duty for you."

Sigurd was looked warily across the table, unsure whether this would bode well or ill for him..

"How so?" he asked cautiously.

"I have heard rumours from the north that I cannot overlook. Our forces number five thousand now, but another five hundred horseman and knights we could have had. I speak of those that fled into the Dire Woods, and which I at dismissed as having perished. But I have begun to doubt that as rash despair. So I wish you to seek them out. Ride with all swiftness the paths of the north, and raise the cry that Guardia is at war; if they yet live, lead them to our muster here at the Castle."

Sigurd nodded.

"Very well. If they live, I will find them."

"This will not be easy," Crono said to Sigurd's hasty reply. "The journey is long, and the woods terrible to travel. It is likely that those regions are the last stronghold of the Mystics that live on this main continent; I counsel you not to cross them, for I am certain they are perilous. Do not dismiss the use of your magic, or to land fatal blows, if need be. Though I would rather ally with them if they do dwell there, they are a race that is long in the forgetting. They live in the waking memory of the great war four hundred years ago, and I do not think they would welcome any such treaties."

Again Sigurd nodded.

"As much as is within my might, I will use. And do not concern yourself with my peril; rather I think that the Mystics are in greater danger. I will unleash the wrath of heaven upon them if they bar my way."

Janus laughed at these words, but Crono bade him be silent and said:

"Sigurd, do not speak with such foolish courage. I know you to be mighty, but I tell you that I have seen foes that would leech your face white. So strong you are not, and the dwellers of the northern forests are most certainly Swart Elves, and other fay creatures. I warn you not to take lightly any you may cross. You say you will unleash storms upon them? I say rather bring them winter!"

"Winter?" Sigurd asked, his eyes unsettled and uncertain. "I do not know what you speak of."

"You would lie to me?" Crono said slowly, with his eyes resting heavily on the child. At that moment Janus stood, and said:

"Then there is a secret! My sister, by her strange wisdom, has some understanding of it. But from me you have kept it continually hidden. And now again you speak in enigma? Speak plainly, or I might feel compelled to become angry."

He said these last words in the tone of a grim jest; though he was the greater sorcerer, Crono was the mightier warrior. Janus was not fool enough to truly threaten him, but rather spoke in such a way so as to entreat Crono to speak.

Crono sighed at this, seeing that further silence would only serve to bring dissension and anger.

"Very well," he said, taking a deep breath, and looking sternly upon Sigurd. "I but guess, yet I think I am correct in saying that your sorcery is twofold: of both the sky and the winter."

Sigurd stood, wonder in his face.

"How do you know this my Lord? You speak the truth, I will not deny it now. But I have always judged it inferior; for is not the peril of winter dire but slow in the making, whereas the anger of the sky swift as unforseen lightning? Such combat has been my wont, and I care not for the slower. Yet, how can you know this?" he stammered, and sat once again, unsure, bewildered, and amazed alike.

"It is not so incredible as you might think, captain," Crono said with a deepening smile. "It is only one piece of a puzzle which I have been attempting to complete since I first met you. Only one now remains, and then it shall be solved, for better or worse."

"What puzzle?" Sigurd said. "I hide nothing! I swear to you, by the Dragon of Guardia. It was with no ill intent that I did not tell you of my full sorcery. And now that it is said, you know all."

"Captain Sigurd," Crono said, "I believe you: it is a mystery to you as well, I am sure. But now, answer me this: your parents in the east, your father who gave you that sword you wield: is he your birth father?"

And now Sigurd paled, for it seemed to him that Crono could read his very mind. He opened his mouth, but no words came, so he shook his head slowly.

Janus looked to Crono, and so did Serge and Schala, who till now had remained watchers. But Crono smiled, and it seemed as if many cares lifted from him.

Sigurd, still in a very confused state of mind, rose.

"My Lord, if it please you: since you have solved some riddle of which I know nothing about, would you care to tell me of it?"

Crono nodded, laughing lightly as he did.

"Yes, indeed, child: you hold a strange light in your eyes; you have powers of both lightning and winter; you wield my old sword; when I first met you, did I not pause for, as I told you then, you reminded me of myself? And now the final piece has fallen. Those who raised you are not those who bore you. Is it not plain?"

Sigurd shook his head.

"What, then? Can this be?" he murmured in wonder.

Janus looked from Crono to Sigurd, and back again, understanding.

"Little wonder that you took such a liking to him, then..."

Serge too saw it now, and Schala, who had shared in Crono's secret, nodded with a smile.

And, indeed, Sigurd too knew what Crono meant, yet had not the courage to speak it. Crono instead said it:

"I have said before that my death should not be the death-knell to Guardia. For, Sigurd, your surname in old Zeal would have been Freynos, as my son and royal heir."

Sigurd looked about as one who wonders if they are in a dream, hearing but not trusting the ears.

"But how can this be?" he said at last.

"How can I be your father?" Crono said. "That is easier to tell, and I will say now of what I know:

When Porre invaded Guardia, princess Nadia Blancheflor, your mother, and I went to war, endeavouring to ward off their legions. We left our child, but one year old at the time, with some villagers I knew in my old home town of Truce. Those battles devastated our hopes, for there was not the time in which to raise the army. The military, such as it was, had already marched to battle, and been destroyed, for the most part. What men I gathered under my command I rallied at the castle itself, and hoped to hold it till Porre became weary of the siege, or some unlooked for aid came. But I had over-guessed my strength. Despite all our powers, the castle itself fell. But the worst would come after: Fleeing from the sack of the fortress we came to Truce and, to our dismay, found it set to fire by the enemy. The house where we had left our child was in ashes, and the good people that had guarded you slain. Nearly we despaired at life. But we gathered our wills, and used our wrath as kindling against Porre, which we made war upon in secret. The dark was our ally in those years, the wilderness our friend. Ever we evaded our enemies in forest and field, striking with speed and disappearing with even more swiftness. Once again, as in our youth, we found ourselves alone against the world. But fortune turned against us at last, and in an ambush your mother was taken. Unable to continue alone and unaided I fled the island, hoping to enlist aid from afar. And in this my efforts were blessed, and upon the shores of Guardia I met Lord Janus and Lady Schala; a month later, Serge came to my aid. Renewed in strength, I returned here. But it was in vain. Your mother was slain, an ignoble death for such a noble lady, who had defied a demon. That drove me at last to this war, but all hope for myself left me. I was defeated in my heart. But it was uplifted once again when I saw you. Even before I knew you for sure, my heart rejoiced, and some of my pain abated. I know not how you were taken in by those fisher folk, but they must be thanked greatly for raising my son, the prince of Guardia. Scarce better could I have hoped for you, my son. You are indeed most worthy of that title that you shall now own from this time onward. And in time you shall be a mighty king."

He stood, and Serge saw that the nobility had returned. The grim wisdom of a great king was in his face, the weight of thousands of lives in his eyes. And yet these he bore now with majesty, equal to the great responsibilities laid upon him.

"So now that an heir lives, let Guardia rejoice! It may yet have a future. But, now that I name you prince, I can no longer hold that title..."

The commanders all stood, bowing before him in anticipation of his words.

"Today I claim my own, my title of old. May Guardia lack a king no longer!"

He turned to Schala.

"And after the war I will be crowned as I should be."

Schala shook her head.

"Nay, not after this war. You shall be crowned today, yea, this very hour. I took thought to this from the first moment I understood the truth of this child's birth."

And now Crono, in turn, was astonished. For from her pack she drew a glorious crown. It was wrought of gold and silver, with the gilded curves and golden vines enwound about the silver. A single gem of crimson sat upon the brow, a majestic centre to a crown worthy of a mighty lord.

"Selinost? That is a fragment of Dreamstone that adorns that crown..." Janus whispered in awe to Serge standing beside him. "Not since the days of Zeal has a sovereign been crowned with it. It is said, truthfully or not, that the one who wears it gains wisdom beyond all other mortals."

Schala overheard him and nodded in affirmation.

"So too have I heard. This is the very last of its kind in the world, as ancient times now draw to a close. It came into my keeping long ago from my foster-mother Lady Ashtear. It is the only shard that remained when the Masamune was reforged decades ago. And now may it grace forever the brows of the Lords of this land. Mayhap with this jewel may Guardia reclaim some of the wisdom and glory that was Zeal. This is my wish."

"So be it, then," Crono said, finally yielding himself to accept his long forgone title.

Together with all gathered, he stepped out of the command tent into the small clearing. Those present turned to see him.

Crono drew his greatsword from his side, and with it cut off his long flowing hair that fell below his shoulders, which he held to be a symbol of his youth and exile. Only back of his head did his locks flow. From that time onward he would be a king such as the old world held them that office to be: a servant of the people.

He gave the sword into Schala's hands, for she was the eldest and wisest of those gathered. Taking up his sword, she held the blade before her. He stood gravely, and bowed his head before her.

"Lord Kronos? Is this a new golden age upon us, then?" Janus whispered to Serge beside him.

Schala now stood before Crono, her presence that of an ancient queen come alive out of legend. She held his sword before him, laid flat on both her hands in front of her. She spoke with a soft yet powerful voice, and none doubted her authority.

"Kronos of Guardia," she said, using the old Hellenic form of his chosen name, "do you now swear before God to be ever the servant of this land and people of Guardia, upholding them with all your will and might even unto your last breath?"

Crono nodded.

"This I will swear to, gladly and willingly, and may God uphold me in this."

She placed the hilt of the sword into his hands, and he held it fast to his heart.

"Do you swear to keep justice in these lands? To aid the oppressed and poor, and to be a friend to the needy with all your means, never hoarding, but giving freely of the treasures accounted your throne, and hold your office only as steward of the High King? Finally, do you swear that this sword of your kingship will know no evil, but be a friend to all the righteous, undoing the plans of the evil?"

"These I swear to as well," he answered at once.

"Then kneel, and receive that which is yours."

He knelt and bowed his head before her. She took up the crown in her hands, and placed it atop head with majesty.

"Then let it be known to all that you, Kronos, shall be sovereign of these lands of Guardia, Lord of its free people, and Defender of its Faith."

Into his free hand she placed the sceptre of the kings of Guardia. A rod white ivory, upon the top of which was the black dragon of Guardia, carven from jet.

"Now take this rod, and crown, the symbols of your office. I hereby name you Lord Frey, King Guardia XXXIV, king of this realm under God. Rise, Lord of Guardia."

And so he did, to the cheers and praise of all his people.

"Hail, Lord of Guardia!" A knight cried out, and that call was echoed at once by the entire assembly.

Many joyous songs the minstrels sung that day, and much to the glory of their king, as was after remembered. But he restrained his modesty, and allowed the people to do was they would.

"Mered ar aenana, ter ar asant il es adea Guardia. Hail, Crono," Schala whispered with a smile.

So it was that after fifteen long years of waiting, Guardia had a true king once again. And the rebirth of that fair land was at hand.

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)


	17. The Final Stroke

CHAPTER XVI

**THE FINAL STROKE

* * *

**

The next day was clear, as was the following. It was certain that those defending the fortress were grateful for the break in the siege, but for those upon the ground it was a time of much preparation. Craftsmen laboured day and night for days; the blacksmiths likewise. Crono himself wandered about ceaselessly, shouting words that gave courage and strength to his people. They in turn praised him as much as any king was ever praised, and in those days they surnamed him the Magnificent; those more learned took to calling him Meredior, which signifies 'the man of glory' in the old tongue of Zeal (though none there were save Janus and Schala that knew the strange chance of this, for Meredior had been the very name that the first king of Zeal had taken for himself, more than twelve thousand years before.)

So it was that the fifth day came quickly. All too quickly for most. This was the day upon which the fate of the entire land would rest. If it was lost so, too, was Guardia.

And on this day Crono was arrayed in his full battle dress, such as Serge had never seen him; for Crono now wore armour truly befitting a king: to guard his body was a hauberk of silver rings over which was set a breastplate of gold inlaid steel. Upon his right and left shoulders were fastened pauldrons of silver and bronze, and gauntlets of embroidered leather were on his hands. Even his feet were shod in iron hemmed boots. Upon his head sat a magnificent helm crafted of silver and gold that appeared nearly as a crown itself. And at his side his matchless sword gleamed from a gold enwound scabbard that alone would have been a prince's ransom. Indeed, he seemed now as both king and general of his people, lord and champion, titles he had been loath to accept until the past day.

"Today is the day of victory, Serge," he said, fastening a kingly dagger to his side as Serge approached.

Serge shook his head, not trusting much to the truth of those words.

"Maybe. That, or some fey charge like the poets always write about. I've seen too many battles lost that seemed way more sure than this one is. I'm not sure what exactly to think of it."

Crono leaned over so that only Serge heard, and said:

"What do you think, that I am a fool? Certainly I know that all too well. I was speaking out of hope rather than reason. For you speak truly: it may well be that our doom this day is defeat, and our only reward for our struggles and death will be to be remembered in the tales of some skald. And little comfort will they be to us, indeed. I do not fear my own death, nay, I would not account that a great loss. But, rather, if we lose the day, I mourn for the death of my land and the freedom of its people."

"But if there's something I've learned in all my adventures," Serge answered, "it's that nothing really disappears in this world, not good or evil. Not till the End, at any rate. Someday, somewhere, even if it's a thousand years from now, there'll be another country like Guardia. Remember the story you told me about how it was founded: a centurion of Rome sailed westward to be free. Even then, when the Romans ruled, a free and peaceful land was born. And if it could happen then, under Rome, it could happen during the age of Porre."

Crono laughed at these words.

"Serge," he said, "I knew you to be bright-eyed, but did not think you had such a joyful outlook on the world. What you say is true, most surely, but it is in my charge to ensure that Guardia does not fall, and endures as long as it may. I will take your words to heart, however, and remember: even though Guardia shall fall, it shall not be the end of virtue or goodness. That dark fate only Lavos brought about, and him we have destroyed for eternity."

Serge glanced once more at the fine array in which Crono was dressed, so unlike to that which he had worn before. Upon the field it had been dull mail and the like, so that he looked to be no different than a petty king or captain; this, however, was armour far more glorious than any Serge had ever seen before. Crono saw his wonder, and laughing said:

"This is my true armour, such as I have not worn since Guardia fell. In the last battle upon the field I was a brigand, and did not count myself worthy to bear such trappings. But now I am King, Serge, and array myself accordingly."

From the earth he bore up a mighty shield, emblazoned with the signs of both Guardia and of his house. A black dragon, the symbol of his land, was at the chief, above the emblem of his family: a sword, which was his, and the silver flower of Marle Blancheflor.

He nodded in the way of Serge.

"You should take some thought to armour yourself, Serge. I daresay your mail shirt will hardly be of use today."

Crono cast his hand in Schala's direction, who was some way off in the way from which Serge had come. Surely Serge had wandered past without thinking it to be her. Even now he hardly knew her. For she was dressed, as Crono, in full battle-array of mail and steel, gilded and etched with elaborate designs traditional of Guardia. From beneath a helmet of silver her long golden hair flowed free as ever, and a bronze breastplate was fastened across a coat of fine mail rings that fell down nearly to her knees. Draped across her back she wore her flowing azure cape that caught even the slightest of winds. Upon her wrists were vambraces, her hands were gloved, and upon her feet were leather war-boots. Even her legs bore greaves. And her weaponry was even more warlike: both dagger and short-sword sat low at her sides, and a third greater sword with a broad blade lay in a scabbard across her back. Crono continued, to Serge's turned back: "An assault on a gate is not to be taken lightly by any measure. We shall be in the open field, overlooked by the battlements, and I do not care to trust to chance alone."

And so Crono's final strategy was set. The two score of siege weapons, the ballistae and trebuchets and the like, were wheeled, through much labour, to before the front gate, though left well out of bow or gunshot. These all were to be a great diversion, to draw the eyes of the defender to the gate, rather than to where Janus would work his secret spells. And how could it fail? The entire army, strengthened to seven thousand now as new warrior-peasants flocked in from the countryside, would stand at the gate as well: a great bait that the enemy need surely take.

In truth, however, none but the captains knew of this plan. Spies were a fear, and the strategy would fail utterly if any wind of it was caught by the enemy. Crono thus trusted to the speed with which he could march his army about the castle to the breach that Janus would make.

And so it began.

The first assault was with the siege weapons. Rocks were hurled and great arrows fired, and all the while Crono looked keenly upon the battlements in hope. Yet, though the missiles they fired shattered stone and, on occasion, slew a defender, the eyes of the enemy remained yet fast upon all sides. To his far right, in the woods at the eastern edge of the castle, Crono new that Janus waited with no less sharp an eye.

But for all the fury of their weapons, the defenders would not cease their vigilance. Their captain was certainly wise, and it was a great fear to Crono that they would never succeed in drawing the attention of their foes solely to the gate. And so he lifted high his hand, and gave the cry that they were to advance full upon the fortress, to the very gate.

And at this the captains, taking up the same cry, led forward their companies in the assault. It was a most impressive charge, moreover, for the full count of the army was at least seven thousands, and they filled the entire of the approach before the fortress. The archers and riflemen that held post above the gate and upon the near battlements struck at once, and all through the ranks many brave men fell. But there were too few to stem the onslaught, and with near undiminished force the soldiers gained the gate.

And this then succeeded. The gate was shaken, and the defenders quaked in sudden fear. What men there were ringing the battlements all made haste for the forward defence, and their vigilance was broken. As swift as a runner off the mark upon hearing the starting shot, Janus rushed forward across the field. There being none to espy him, he came unharmed to the walls, and laughed grimly to himself at the foolishness of his enemies. Now they would see the power of the one they faced, and fear the might of Janus the magician.

He knelt beside the great wall, his eyes transfixed unerringly upon the stone.

"Fall now, become dust and crumble," he whispered, his will working against the strength binding the stone.

_Inë es aichos paraia il nemoth Jeriko_

_Ios wed fala_

_Ientad lom es methoset chelema ema amerad valparaia imo, _

_Inë es paraia il meredet Ilium eli nemoth dachai _

_Nechamad ost sol ost uth läishad mel_

_Ientad lom es ros il es tera ar nerusa es Danaoio_

_Ient ine es fala il aichos Ilium_

_Chedal elth nimuret fala ar aichios ost tim tor sai_

_Inë es paraia il methoset Tel-Jebus lom es Shinarlim._

_Inë es fala il Astrad lom es aichosith il Selevroth._

_Crumble, and be dust._

And even as he finished it was so. Spell-bound in command to such mighty words, the stones shattered as though they were stricken glass. From the topmost battlement to the very foundations a mighty fissure wound its way, and all the walls about crumbled to pieces, flying apart in a storm of dust and stone.

Janus stepped backward, his dark eyes in joy over his success. His power was mighty, indeed. From the walls astonished cries rang, calling all men to the alarm. Soldiers ran about, some readying arrows, and others firing aimlessly at the ground, in wonder over what had chanced. Not one could believe that a lone sorcerer had taken down the walls that they had thought immortal. Janus laughed, seeing their fear, and revelled in his power.

And now the battle at the gate was abandoned. With both speed and zeal that drove terror into the hearts of the defenders, the host of the army, some seven thousand men on foot, was set upon the breach. Some few fell to arrows in the march, but the dismay of the defenders was such that the toll was less than it could have been. And then it was set: the army of Guardia was arrayed before the breach. It was a great rally, and the spears of Guardia were like a forest growing from amidst a field of shields.

For their part those that held the fortress were still distressed, though regaining their wits even as the armies of their foes reformed themselves. They knew that if they could not hold the breach, all would be lost, and so every man that was able to fight was sped there. Those that bore guns readied their flint and powder, preparing the first shot and making certain that those that followed would be swift and deadly. The bowmen, such as they were (for there were not many here in the fortress, most having been slain in the battle on the fields), strung the sinew fast on the wood, and stood ready with a single arrow upon the string. The mercenary swordsmen and axemen brandished about their blades and shook their shields, in practice for the affray that was sure to follow the first exchange of arrows and shot. And, finally, those that had any skill in sorcery, whether in healing or in war, held the back line, preparing to make their foemen pay a dear price if they came so far. It was a remarkable order, masterfully arrayed to throw back whatever assault might occur, and Crono, had he known it, would not have been much astonished to know that it was the captain of the Imperial Guard garrison there, Norris himself, who had commanded it. Or, rather, it was he who commanded the entire defence of the castle on behalf of his empire; the general had been slain, and he alone yet lived of the military commanders that had embarked upon the crushing of the rebellion, for the lives of the other captains had ended upon the field days before. Indeed, though the defence of the fortress had seemed insurmountable to those that sought to take it, it was mostly a play, for those that held it were ill-supplied and despairing. Had it not been for Norris and his steadfast legion, it might well have been that the fortress would have surrendered itself willingly long before. But Norris was a masterful man and stern captain, to whom men would listen and entrust their lives; he had ordered a stout defence upon the walls day and night, and had spared no shot in making it seem as though all was well with those holding it. All of this Crono did not know, but even had he, it was unlikely that his course would have been greatly altered.

But Norris was clever. Though in numbers, and through virtue of the fortress he held, he had enough force of arms so that the battle could swing to victory or loss, he knew his enemies perceived that he had far more strength than he in truth had. And so it struck him to play this to its fullest, and perhaps through fear and dismay cause them to abandon the siege. To this end he mounted the highest of the eastern battlements, and cried down at the army:

"I appeal to your reason, brigand Crono. Lay down your arms, and sue for the mercy of Porre. Enemy though you be, I swear by God I shall spare your life if you surrender yourself with sword undrawn."

This all he said with a stern resolution to his voice, though his heart misgave him, and he feared that Crono would not be taken by this bait.

"Say, Norris!" Crono cried back in return. "It is you, is it not? Look upon my array, and mark me well: I am no longer a brigand. See my sword, and know that a king reigns in Guardia again! You give me terms for mercy? The brigand would not have taken them, how much less can the king. I, too, offer you mercy: the same that you would offer me. But if you reject these, then must this day be decided in blood."

"Lord Crono, then," Norris cried in return. "You say that you cannot by reason of your kingship accept my mercy. Then know that I, too, cannot accept yours, through reason of my oath-bound loyalty to my empire. So this day will indeed be decided by blood. Let then justice be judge!"

And as he said this he left the battlements, and for a moment all was silence in both ranks. But only for a moment. For with a sharp cry the front line of the army of Guardia pressed forward their assault, and as they marched the front line held their shields firm in front; their spears they held before them. A phalanx even as Alexander of Macedonia had marched with, as some few knew, and it was a good counsel. Or, rather, should have been against an army such as theirs was. But Porre was not as the ancient armies were, and as soon as they began the march, all the front line of the archers and musketeers fired their first volley. Now, the shields were strong, of many layered ox-hide and wood, and the arrows stuck fast to them and were halted; but the shot from the muskets was dire, and most often splintered through both hide and wood, and deep into the man behind. Five score of men fell in the first volley; with the phalanx broken, twice that many in the second. One might have guessed that two hundred might have been slain in the third, but it never came. Though the archers were swift and their arrows came like sleet, the musketeers were slow to load new shot and, before their third was prepared, the first of their foes had leaped into the fortress.

And so the battle began in full. The archers that had no other weapons other than their bows ran to the battlements where they could shoot in safety, and those that held swords drew them. Axes were swung, armour was cleft, and shields were shattered. Into the fray Crono himself leaped, arrayed in gold like a ray of sunlight, his sword shining and eager for blood in his hand. Behind followed Serge, clad in his dull steel mail, but with the Masamune flaming in his grip. Together the two pushed back all defence from the breach, and the enemy broke and ran.

Yet still Norris looked for victory, and he was cunning. From many windows, from the belfry of the cathedral and a score of other high places, archers that he had kept prepared now took aim. A storm of deadly darts went flying upon the king and his host. So now the tide began to turn for Porre, and those that had begun to flee turned and held fast defence in the outer keep, before the inner gate.

"Look to the archers!" Crono cried desperately, swinging about his bloodied blade, "Bowmen, take aim at the towers!"

But Crono had few bowmen with him. Cursing his ill fortune he gathered his strength for sorcery, and raised his sword. A great vein of lightning swept to him from the sky, and at once he sent it swiftly to the belfry. The archer who had stood there fell with an unheard cry as the noisome sorcery lanced through his heart. Twice more Crono did this, and two more fell. But it was a perilous thing, for his mind needed be on many things at once: with his left hand he parried those who attacked, and with his right he fought with both sword and magic. Serge, nearby, was struggling, and could not aid with his own spells: caught in a corner by several foes, he was fighting merely to live.

And then it was that Janus and Schala leaped in through the breach.

At their coming the tide at once left from Porre, and returned to Guardia. The archers fell like flies from their high posts to the twain's terrible sigaldry. Soon not one remained to harry the armies and, though they had taken a dire toll, the king's men now saw that the host that held the fortress was not so great as they had thought it to be. Heartened by this, they felt victory was near.

Or, so it appeared. Norris was no fool, and ever held another trick ready to counter the turning fortunes. Now he loosed his magicians he had kept at bay, and these came as a storm upon the Guardian armies. This new assault struck fear into every heart, and even Crono was aghast at the sudden onslaught, made all the more dreadful by the nearness that victory had seemed only a moment before. Here came the Swart Elves with their cunning spells, even as they had so lately in the field battle. But more terrible than these were the sorcerers of the Black Wind. Dark robed and bearing an array of steel armour and weapons, both swords and rifles, they were perilous foes. The first hail of magic was heralded with a storm of shot, and many a brave warrior perished at that moment, and many were wounded. Serge himself was nearly slain, for a sharp iron shot rang off his steel helm; had he not worn it, as had been his earlier wont, he would have surely been dead at once. Janus and Crono were both struck, though neither mortally so: Janus fell to a knee as a bullet that pierced his greaves shattered his bone, and an unlucky spell burned like hellfire through his breastplate; Crono tore his helm free from his head even as it writhed and burned to ashes under some evil curse.

"We shall die here," Janus said with a fey-touched laugh, and he fought to rise. He stood, but found that much of his strength had left him. But even at that moment he looked up to the sky with narrowing eyes, and cried: "And yet, perhaps that hour is not yet upon us!"

Crono turned about and looked at him with wonder, for it seemed that foresight had come upon Janus. Even the enemy that were now nearing their victory paused for a certain moment at his chill voice.

"What do you say?" Schala asked of her brother, leaping at once to his side.

"Listen, and hear!" Janus said. "The north-wind brings news upon its wings!"

And even at that time, when hope was growing dim, a horn sang. It came from the north, though its ringing note was ever rising, as if it were nearing.

At once Crono knew what this portended.

"The riders from the north!" he cried. "Four hundred to our aid! Guardia shall victor this day yet!"

And with that jubilant cry he rushed forward, heedless of the foe's sorcery. Seeing this dauntless charge, all the warriors of Guardia that stood near to him, and both Schala and Serge, followed behind. The sorcerers of Porre were holding the last gate to the inner keep and tower, and stood in front so that none could near it. But hearing the sudden horn, and fearing the onslaught of the king, they faltered, even the mighty among them. With haste they built a wall of enchantment, and opened the great gate so as to retreat to the final defence. But even as they did so Norris, in wrath and despair, called to them from the keep wall:

"Halt! Do not run! You are handing them victory!"

But they would not stop, for the fear of defeat was in their hearts, and not even the fiery and commanding words of their captain would sway them. Yet had they known all of what was chancing, it would certainly have been otherwise.

The gate was open, and the last of the sorcerers had found their way inside. With haste they pushed at the doors to shut them, but were too late in doing so. Their spells had been quick and weak and, many though they were, the wizardry of Janus was far stronger. The unseen walls had shattered at his call, and with this last thing he retired of the battle, needing all his strength to heal his own hurts. He swept his cape about and, with a faltering pace, left through the breach, there being none to bar his way of escape.

As he went through, however, Sigurd passed inward, drawn sword in hand.

"Alas, the battle is near over!" he cried to Janus as he saw the dead that littered the courtyard, and marked that there were none save at the inner gate who yet fought.

"Yet some swordwork at least, Sigurd," Janus said. "Go now! You are needed. You, and the riders you have brought."

At that moment Crono, as he lead the endeavour to take the gateway, looked backward. He saw Sigurd and Janus speak a space; then Janus laughed greatly, and Sigurd ran forward to join his father.

"Sigurd, you come in the very nick of time!" Crono said to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Lord Janus has been sorely wounded, and we are in need of your sorcery and following company. Your riders, are they swift behind you?"

But Sigurd shook his head.

"No, father, there are no riders. The horn was mine alone. If any warriors were in the northern forests, they have surely perished."

"Alas," Crono cried, "and yet your horn could not have come at more apt a time! This may well turn the tide for the final time, and put victory into our hands. Come!"

And having said so he leaped forward of all the warriors, and led the assault into the inner halls.

Surely the battle was won then, but the sorcerers believed that only death could be their fate, and the Black Wind would not willingly surrender, even to save their own lives. They fought to the last and least, and so hardy was their defence that it was not without the price of blood was every hall and stair won for Guardia. Yet in the end the king had the mastery, and at last only Norris, and two of his guard, remained alive in the final chamber. Then Crono stepped forward, saying:

"Much blood is on your account today, Captain Norris. Had you yielded the fortress, many lives would have been spared from death."

But Norris shook his head.

"Yet I may say a like thing of you. You, too, could have surrendered, yet did not. The guilt of blood belongs to us both."

With a nod Crono affirmed it, but added:

"And yet small joy will that dividing of guilt bring you, for the victory is mine, and not yours. Look at this tale: you, who for so long yearned to capture me, are now my prisoner."

But Norris shook his head.

"I will be no prisoner. Set me free, or I slay me. I will have nothing else."

Crono laughed grimly, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

"Then death will be your fate," he said, and drew out the blade. "What of your two captains? Will they share in it?"

The one laughed grimly, saying:

"So you think, northman, that the courage of the south is weak? We are of like mind, and will not betray our duty."

And the other nodded in silent agreement.

Crono stepped forward, but at the very moment in which he was to strike off Norris' head, Serge came forward into the room, bloodied and spent. For he had ever been at the thickest and worst of the fighting, and that had taken him to the deep dungeons and the last defence.

"No, don't kill him. Set him free," he said wearily, leaning greatly on the haft of the Masamune.

Crono sighed shortly, but withdrew his blade for the moment.

"Serge, why? Three more only need die; with their blood will Guardia be cleansed of the rule of Porre. You may wish me to free him, but remember that he is enemy to my people, and a foe to us all. He serves Porre."

Serge nodded. Indeed, he understood that well enough. But he even so remembered a bygone time in which Norris had been a dear friend.

"Yes, I know he's our enemy. I'm not going to fool myself about that, Crono. But I know a thing or two about enemies and friends, too, and about well-meaning people caught on the wrong side. Norris is a better man than you think. And I'll have you remember that mercy's considered the trait of a good king. And that's what you are now that we've won this battle. It's your choice, but I'd ask you not to kill him, if not for his sake then for mine."

As he said this, Norris looked in wonder at Serge.

"You, child? You are the same that I dismissed in Termina months ago. Did you then play my mercy against me?"

Serge shook his head.

"No, Norris, I didn't," Serge answered, somewhat pained by Norris' harshly spoken words. "But it all made sense to me later. I was once something of a hero, and still am, I suppose. Porre is an enemy to the people, here and even at home, and I had to fight them. Someday maybe you'll see this," and Serge nearly added 'again', for it had been in noble anger at the cruelty of his empire that had, in some forgotten time, made Norris break his oath-bond and join Serge; here there would be no such thing, Serge knew, but only hoped that their parting, which would in likelihood be final, could be without enmity. "But just believe me when I say that I'm not your enemy, here."

"You counsel your companion to free me," Norris replied. "Through this I suppose you can have some claim of friendship, though I do not know why you should care for my fate. So now, Crono, what shall it be? Do you release me, or do I die?"

Crono paused for a moment, then he bore up his sword again as if to deliver the deathstroke. But even as he did so he relented, and dropped the point to the earth, saying:

"Marle, forgive me," he muttered, then raising his voice to Norris said: "You are my enemy, captain. You always will be that. But on the behest of Serge, who followed me most graciously upon my now fulfilled quest, I will free you. If ever we meet again, it will be as enemies, but here, at least, we may part in truce."

Crono bowed a formal farewell, and spoke a word to the nearest of his guard. Norris gave a sharp salute after the fashion of the Empire and, without a further word, he and his two remaining soldiers departed from the room and fortress. That day they left on the homeward road, leaving Guardia and defeat behind.

But when Norris had left, Crono turned to Serge and said:

"But perhaps it is not solely for you that I allowed him to go. A brigand needs be merciless, but a good king thrives on mercy. Had I not granted him that, I should have shamed myself, and Guardia through it. I thank you for reminding me of this. And now, we mourn; but after, we celebrate victory. Come!"

Then Crono went to the highest tower, and cried aloud:

"Hail Guardia, that arises from the ashes! Hail the black dragon!"

Then, even as the sun flashed its last golden rays upon the towers of the fortress the banner of the chimera was torn down, and the gleaming standard of the black dragon was raised high, its embossed emblem blowing gloriously in the chill twilight wind for the first in fifteen years.

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)


	18. A Winter's Solace

CHAPTER XVII

**A WINTER'S SOLACE

* * *

**

It was many long days before the fortress was cleared of the dead, and even thereafter much remained to be done ere the castle was fit to withstand siege again. Through great labour the breach was repaired, in the chance that the armies of Porre would soon try at a swift counterstrike. But that was only a dim fear: those of that host that remained in Guardia were weak and in flight, and to march a new number into the north from their homeland would continue the war well into the winter, and they were not foolish enough to do such a thing. Whatever might chance, it was near certain that the time of battle had passed, at the very least for the winter. And so, once all that great work was complete, the victorious people of Guardia thronged the castle to celebrate their victories.

In the throne-room itself Crono held a great feast for those who had been his captains. There tales were told, by the loremasters and those who had skill in the making of songs, of both of this past battle and of those heroes and wars of legend that warriors oft think back upon: of the great fleets and hosts of the Achaians as they sought the downfall of Troy; of the wanderings of both famed Odysseus and Aeneas in the years that came after; of the deeds of Herakles and Perseus and many other heroes of old; of Gilgamesh, the favoured of Ishtar; and even some of the myths and wars of old Zeal, such as were remembered. Many beyond count they told, and there the minstrels sung of the high deeds of their own king, placing his name aside the great heroes of old, even beside the like of mighty Agamemnon. Much joy was there as they drank to the peace and glory that would assuredly be Guardia's again, and the hall was rife with laughter and song, such as it had not heard in many a long year. But at last, as the sun grew dim in the eastern sky, Crono called for silence, and he stood to speak:

"So is victory accomplished, and Guardia reborn," he said. "All that stand here are blessed with the honour of having aided in this, but twofold is the honour of those that have died for it."

A great murmur of assent ran through the hall.

"Let the fallen have their peace and glory alike!" Crono cried, drawing a drink from his chalice.

The captains did likewise, a few murmuring echoes of his words saluting those who had perished.

Crono looked about the room, with mournful eyes.

"Let the perished not be forgotten, and let their memory persist in honour: Sir Hadrian, a terror to his foes; Medesior, lord of spearmen, who stood against the sorcerers of the Black Wind with dauntless courage; captains and mean warriors alike, a thousand-fold host of slain. And lastly the Lady of the White Flower, Marle Blancheflor, Queen of Guardia!"

"Hail! the fallen queen of our land!" a noble cried, raising his goblet high.

Crono drained the last of his chalice. Then, having done so, he drew his sword.

"And now must we give honour to those yet living, so that the knighthood of Guardia will not fade, but be fairer and mightier than even it was in past years!"

He strode forward, down from the stone dais. Standing at the foot of his throne he called out:

"Lord Janus, Magus of old, come forward!"

Janus rose from his mead-bench, with a sweep of his cloak coming to before Crono like some hero-vassal of old before a legendary king. Or maybe it was indeed so, for Janus was with certainty a hero, and the deeds performed by the hands of the king spoken of as legend.

"My friend, as an ancient sorcerer you were once the most bitter enemy of my land. But now are you her dearest of friends. You have shown faithfulness to me in my need, and done services of valour becoming a knight. And so I gladly name you a knight of Guardia: you shall be Lord Janus the Night-Raven. Elth aith asant rosfaiao, my friend."

And he placed the broad edge of the sword upon Janus' shoulder, signifying that what he had said was a king's law.

Janus bowed, and with a flourish of his cape returned to the place from where he had come.

"Lady Schala, princess of Zeal," Crono said once Janus had left.

She rose with fay-like grace and stepped lightly to before Crono. With the war now come to completion, she had cast aside her battle-raiment, and was rather dressed in lightly gilded samite, and through the youth of her fair face, and the splendour of her array, she appeared even as she was: the princess of a high ancient realm.

Her golden hair shimmered as she rose, for it was spun with silver-thread, as was the ancient custom of Zeal.

"My friend," Crono said, "about whom the great tales have all been spun. Aged and youthful alike, you have borne many titles grander than this, and a ladyship in such a small realm is but a trifle to a child of Zeal, but may it serve as a token of my thanks for all that you have done. I name you Lady Schala, Mistress of Enchantment."

With a smile she bowed before him as he placed the sword upon her shoulder.

"To me it is greater than all others," she said and, rising, bowed a second time, and returned to her seat at her mead-table, beside Serge and her brother.

"And last of the three that came with me from the west, Serge of El Nido."

Serge stood, treading with slow paces; all the eyes of the captains and great warriors were upon him at this moment, and never had he revelled in the praise of many. Arriving at the throne he knelt, and felt the weight of the sword upon his shoulder, as the king spoke:

"For all the many things you have done for me, my friend: in Guardia you shall be remembered as Lord Serge Masamune, in honour of the holy sword that you bear."

Then Serge rose, and rejoined the others. It felt more than passing strange to him, to be granted such high favour for his effort. Never before had his deeds been so honoured; they were, for the most part, forgotten, so that to the memory of most they were as though they had never been. Yet now he was called a lord in an ancient land, and befriended by a king. But such were the odd chances that befell in life, and he shrugged it aside as he came to sit beside Schala and Janus, joining them in their mead.

That eve were many other honours bestowed as well, so that the soldiery and knights of Guardia were as many, if not as strong, as they had been in past days. And, last of all, Crono brought forth his son, and presented him to the archbishop at the cathedral. There, in the presence of all the nobility, he was blessed as both a true Knight and Prince of the realms of Guardia, and was charged with all the duties becoming of these titles. For his valour in the war he was given the name Sigurd Taksdios (That is, Foebane; for at needs a prince must have a fearsome title, and what less could be thought of one that came of the lineage of not one, but two, heroes?) The people celebrated his deeds greatly, for they felt him to be, as his father before, one come from their own ranks.

And so things turned out well in the end according to Crono's wishes, save only that his dear wife had not lived to celebrate victory at his side. But he was consoled by the company of his son who reminded him not a little of Marle, with shimmering golden hair.

As for the others...

Certainly Janus and Schala were their usual selves. Not war nor anything else had changed them. Janus haunted the lower halls of the castle so often and so furtively that more than once a terrified page would swear he had seen a ghost or wraith. He would take to speaking with the older and wiser loremasters when his mood was softer, or stride around noisomely in his steel-shod boots, muttering curses, if it wasn't. Schala, for her part, spent her days reading through the many histories contained in the vast libraries, and scribing her own accounts of ancient times, learning what she did not yet know, amending errors, and writing much that lived now only in her ancient memory. Often when Serge, on his way to have solace upon the battlements, walked through the great library hall he would see her there, head bowed over quill, in profound thought. Yet she never failed to notice him passing, and always glanced up to greet him merrily.

Upon one of these days he took thought to ask her of what she so zealously wrote. She looked up at his approach, smiling as she ever did these days following the war.

"Ah, Serge," she said. "The battlements grown too chill for you, are they?"

"Maybe," he answered, though not having known before that his own wandering about the castle walls had been so noticed. "Writing our stories down?"

"Our own tales? Partly," she replied with a faint laugh. "I suppose those need telling also, though I am not nearly so far. I am now scribing the history of our world and race, for there is none such as rightly tells it. I have spoken of our earliest years, and have now come only to Zeal; but the tales of that land will alone fill many a book."

And at that Serge wondered, for certainly he had heard tell of great Zeal, not least in Schala's ballads during the war. But those were skald-songs, and he now wondered what the truth of that lands was, that Schala wrote of in so scholarly a manner.

"Zeal," he said. "I've heard its legends, and I've heard you talk and sing about it. But really: what was it like? Your songs were nice and all, but in your own words, tell me of Zeal."

She smiled.

"Ah, you do not care overmuch for them? Those songs were my words, lays written by me and my brother. So that we, and all people might remember Zeal."

"I didn't know you were a poet, too," he said, having not seen her quite in that way before.

She smiled with a small nod. Closing her eyes, she took up a simple verse she had sung weeks before:

_Hear! Thou skalds of long-passed fame!_

_That sing of shining spear and sword_

_Once held by heroes great and bold_

_Of ancient fields and godlike men, _

_Who boast of many valour-deeds._

_Yet ever still in fate enmeshed_

_And overcome with doom to die_

_And take the road to Hades' hall:_

_Cross Styx and into shadowed-lands._

_Most surely all of this you know_

_But have you heard of glory old_

_Sung ere thy ancient tales were set?_

_Ere heroes sires did firstly tread_

_Upon the fields of this green earth._

_See all the Argive's fabled hosts_

_Those men of passéd legend-fame:_

_King counsellor, lord Nestor old_

_Diomedes, who wounded Love_

_Odysseus, resourceful, see._

_There stood the son of Telamon_

_And the child of king Atreus_

_Lo! as Ares in his dread wrath_

_Is the scion of Peleus._

_Yet, nay! _

_Not all of these in gold-arrayed_

_Did over-splendour my great lords!_

_Ah! Ye bards! Of Zeal I sing!_

_The fairest land, upon the airs_

_Like cloud of silver-silk..."_

But at this she paused and, smiling, reopened her eyes.

"Ah, but you wished to hear of Zeal without the flowery of poetry, was that it?"

He nodded.

"What was Zeal like," she said to herself and leaned backward in her seat, closing her eyes in solemn thought.

"It was debauched and depraved, arrogant and selfish," she said, shaking her head with more than a little disdain. "Yes, that was Zeal the glorious."

This perplexed Serge, for her words were none of praise, as they had been before.

"Then your songs about the glory and beauty of Zeal were lies?" he asked is surprise.

She opened her eyes once more, and cast a serious glance upon him.

"Lies, Serge?" she said, and laughed somewhat. "What do you expect of such things? They were lies only if you think such things to be pure truth. Know that those who write down songs of legends and history exaggerate much of which they tell. It is a common failing, or is rather simply the mode of such things, for few enjoy hearing tell of evils in the past, for it rarely bodes well for the future. It is true, Zeal was beautiful beyond words. And they were most certainly powerful, beyond the measure of all other mortals, and yes, even wise after a fashion. But the heart of Zeal had ever been its rulers: its kings and queens alike in the varying years, through countless generations to the very reign of Ter-Meredior himself. And my mother was corrupt, drawing down the people, for the most part, into this. She looked upon the power of Lavos, and coveted it. She ordered the forging of a great device whereby this might be accomplished, and standing before it told her people: 'See, here is your god that has saved you. Worship it.'" Schala paused as she said this, and was quiet for a space. At length she said: "My memory of that day is clear and terrible, for it was upon it, at first, that I felt a nearing doom. That day marked the chief step away from glory, and into our destruction. The day we held the things of our making, and we ourselves, as gods. But it was not the fault of the day. No, that was only what was made manifest, a mirror to our own hearts. For our might was tainted by supreme arrogance, and we believed that our sorcerous powers made us worthier of life than those who dwelt yet upon the earth, to whom magic was yet a mystery. And from this arrogance came an ambition. The old ambition to conquer death, and never know the frailty and weakness of old age. They deemed that even this was their destiny." And she tightened her fists in wrathful memory as she said it. "That accursed dream of immortality! They believed themselves so mighty that it might be in their grasp. But they fell in reaching for it, fell upon the sword of their own ambition. That glory they attempted to gain they found all too late is not for mortal hearts to desire. And so perished Zeal, of all the kingdoms of Men most glorious and wonderful."

"I pity the people of Zeal. That they weren't content with the life that they were given," Serge said upon hearing this; he himself had, in his bygone quests, been tempted many a time by promises of power and glory, but had always held himself content and unshaken by such things. Yet in having felt such tainted offers, he could quite easily understand how that people had succumbed to ambition.

"So you should," Schala replied sadly, "and so should all learn the lesson of the folly of Zeal. One should not seek a power greater than what is granted unto them. Ai, so much learning those of my land possessed, yet a simple wisdom they lacked: they did not know the truest desire of their own hearts. For ever it is peace, and the joy that proceeds from it, that our mortal souls yearn for."

"They were blinded by their ambition and power," Serge said knowingly. "That was what betrayed them."

"Precisely! Our flawed mortality ever taints that which shines brightest. Zeal may have lasted for many thousand years yet. Perhaps even unto this very day. But the learning that may have come from its minds is now lost in the questions of what might have been."

"And we forgot it so quickly," Serge muttered. "Everything they did, built, and lived for. Your people wouldn't have been all too happy to know that. It fell in one night and was forgotten about."

"Ten thousand years is hardly a short span of years, Serge, by any reckoning, but it has not been wholly forgotten. People of after years have certainly made tales of its glory and splendour, and of its fall, but you know it in those stories by other names. For who ever knew the truth of Zeal? Those that outlived its ruin - yes, there were some few - faded swiftly, and the memory of their kingdom with them. And so it became but a legend: a seed of truth mixed with fable. But did not wise Plato himself speak of it? He named it Atlantis, a mythical island of great learning and beauty that was beset by a great disaster upon the eve of a great venture; struck down by the gods for the sins of arrogance and debauchery even at the pinnacle of its glory. Surely Zeal was the Atlantis that was spoken of. And so, too, were we the mythical Tower of Babel that is ever the symbol of the folly of pride. No tower did we build but that of our own ambition, but truly in thought we sought to reach God, to be as Him, and gain immortality. What fools we were! Those that lived were scattered to the ends of the earth. But nothing so great is ever wholly forgotten, for our legend lingers still as an echo of a myth. Yet it is a fading memory, only."

She looked to high ceiling with a sad-touched smile, thinking back to ancient days passed above the clouds.

"Ah, Zeal! How clearly I yet remember your splendour and magnificence!Ai, es meredet malecho! Serge, nothing seems magnificent to one who has once seen those towers. And the armies of my land, one hundred thousand strong, against which no foe could stand. Not merely dauntless and valiant, but so wondrous and beautiful to look upon: our spears, whose heads were cut of flawless diamond, shimmering as fields of crystal in the midday light; our swords, woven with enchantment which no malice could undo, shining pale in the twilight as the sun crept below our horizons; and the golden helms and gilded coats of mail of even the lowliest soldier. When the war trumpets of Zeal sounded aloud it was a symbol of fear to all the earthbound kingdoms, and even the mightiest land trembled at the very rumour of our coming. For to them it seemed as if the very heavens broke open with thunder, and gleaming legions of angels descended; so magnificent were the hosts of old Zeal. And so by the time of my life there was no enemy to Zeal in all the western world. Beneath our heel we held subject all the lands of the west. Some might say with stern yet benevolent lordship, while others would name us tyrants, oppressing all beneath us. For what I knew, we were some of both. At times our great masters of lore would come among the people yet lacking any strength of sorcery, and teach them what they could of our knowledge. But as the years lengthened we became cold and stern, and tired of the life granted us. It was not our beauty that diminished; that grew till the very hour of our destruction. But on a time the forums of Zeal were thronged with multitudes, not only of Zeal but also of the earth. It was partly by their strength that the Arythfala, the Pillars of the Stars, the beautiful towers of the citadel, were raised. However in the last days to which I belonged no earthbound could so much as peer up at the Kingdom without fear of punishment. And this was at the command of my mother the Queen, and few dared oppose her in word or action. Her three counsellors, the great Masters, did so, and thus they were banished to far flung and woeful prisons. I also worked against her evil, though being but a child did so more in secret, and through an indirect hand. I alone of all the high Zeal court yet visited the lands beneath, to bring my learning to those unenlightened that lay under our rule. But I did far too little, and was blind to how far things had come, because for all our might, we crumbled at our own hands. Our grandest legions could not forestall the enemy that we became unto ourselves. And in my weakness I did not, I could not, oppose this nearing end."

She sighed.

"Perhaps even the magic itself we so boldly used with ease was a folly in and of itself."

"But there's no evil in magic," Serge said. "It's how someone uses it that makes it good or evil."

"Perhaps," she said. "But I doubt there being much truth in that. Serge, magic is a power. And know that power will corrupt those who wield it, unless they are of surpassing valour and nobility of mind. None I have yet seen would deny a gift of might, and not abuse it to their own glory. Can any man use such a power as magic with only the most pure of intent, and not give thought to one's own honour and glory? I do not think so. At times I even begin to wonder if magic itself was never intended to fall into human hands, and that we happened upon it by ill chance: that it was only by some sin that it came as a curse upon us. For it seems too great for our frail minds to master, and of all the end-fruits most seem evil, with magic twisting us in mockery to evil. What has it availed us but sorrow and hardship? We war with it, and slay with it in meaningless wrath, using it with little thought or care, and scarcely ever for art or beauty. Look what has come upon us: death and war; ruin to beauty and to life."

"Those things would be even without magic," the voice of Janus said as he wandered out of the far shadows of the room, his steel shod boots ringing loud on the stone floor.

"For magic and sorcery is not the cause of our evils. Rather, it may only be in some measure the judgement visited upon us."

"Zeal fell because of it," she replied, resting her hand absently on her writing. "You of all need not read my account to know the tale of that folly."

"Partly, my sister. It was because of what we sought to accomplish by it, and the manner in which we allowed it rule over our hearts. It, rather than we, became the master," Janus said. "But so is it with all things: when the things we possess become the possessors, it is our downfall. Yet do not curse magic: there were many wonderful things, things of surpassing fairness, that came of it too. The legions of Zeal you spoke of so lately. I was not so young then that I do not remember those as well. The great display at the high winter festival: marching from the Autumn Gate to the Spring Gate like a serpent of gold."

"And I remember a little brother so enamoured by their glorious parades that he eagerly told his sister that he wished to be one of the high captains when he grew to age," Schala said.

Janus laughed.

"Did I truly? I do not wonder at that. I would have done so, I deem, had Zeal endured. I should have been captain of her legions in my turn, and all would have revered my commands. Janus: Field-Lord of Zeal."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"One hundred thousand awaiting my words. Janus Valasant, at whose coming all enemies cower in fear."

"And to this title you must promptly add 'Janus the hot headed fool who thinks to much of himself,'" Schala replied. "Had Zeal endured, I should have been queen in my turn; if you lament the loss of such captainship, look only at what fate has wrested from me: the rule of the greatest kingdom the world has ever seen. Such things were not our destiny. And perhaps it was well, for if history is to be judge of your leadership, you would be found lacking."

With a blaze of anger in his eyes he said:

"That was merely a means to my end. I have told you this many a time. History has vindicated me of fault, for my sole desire was not the ruin of Guardia, nor mastery and lordship of the lands, but to rise in power."

"For vengeance," she said wearily, plainly having heard the very words from him many times before.

"Yes, vengeance. For me, for the world, and for our fallen land. How else could I build my power to such strength with which I could challenge the Demon? I did as the Mystics had me do, and led them along their path so long as it suited my own designs. And did I not make good on my intent, sister? Did I not summon Lavos himself to my fortress to do battle with him?"

"Yes, as a fool, my brother, for surely you failed. By rights you should be dead now. For we all know that after that day the Mystic armies faltered, and their beloved Magus never returned."

He glowered at her, saying:

"That fate is gone forever; I am not dead now, and so I did not die then. And even if that was once my destiny, fate had me die a noble death, for it was in saving the world that I perished."

"Do not colour your mis-truths so lightly, Janus," she said, and her voice was one of gentle, sisterly, reproach. "You cared nothing for the world, and your only desire was to pay due to your enemy the injustice it had dealt out upon you. There was no holy honour in your self-serving vengeance."

"There are times when one must worry only about oneself, and dismiss the fate of others, if only to survive. Think you it an easy thing to cast pity from one's heart, and to force oneself to dissemble all kind emotion and caring? To not weep tears at the death of friends, to make one's lips laugh at cruelty and the drawing of blood, to perforce live a life of bloodlust and deal harshly, and even evilly, with those near? I walked those paths for so long, I can even now scarce see any other way to live. But I am not by nature evil: those things pained me deeper than words can tell, and I still bear remorse for every one of my misdeeds; I only justify myself through purpose and. But am I not changed, now? Sister, why must you always deride me so? Can I do nothing with pure intent in your sight? Am I still the Sorcerer to your eyes?"

"I remind you of your place, Janus, and restrain your pride. But for me you would cease all caution. You are mighty, in some ways more so than I myself am, but lack the wariness that proceeds from wisdom. Take care, and learn this."

For a moment it seemed to Serge that Janus would protest bitterly. But he did not. Nor did he glare in vehemence as he often did. Instead he lowered his eyes, as if in shame over the rebuke.

"Perhaps you speak truly. My heart cannot abandon its old pride, no matter how bitterly I struggle against it. Lavos, and my folly ridden vengeance, have left their marks deep, I am afraid."

Serge said little more to Schala following this, and decided rather in favour of walking the battlements. The chill drafts of winter stung him keenly through his mantle, and a slight dust of newly fallen snow lay beneath his feat. But he did not care overmuch, for his thoughts were turned inward.

And these were thoughts of the past, of war, of peace and not least of his long forsaken home. Now that the war was ended he once again thought of it, far away cross the horizon though it lay. Certainly it would not be snowing there, nor would it be so bitterly cold. And at this thought, remembering the winter, warmer than even the Guardian summers, he shivered. He was not used to the north, not even after these many months. And the temperature lent a certain substance to his thoughts and mood. The drear sky, overcast with low sailing grey clouds, weighed in on him. He longed for the clear, unbroken blue sky of his native land. The disquiet in his heart had grown again, filling the void that the ended war had left.

"And here we come to one who is yearning for his home," Crono said, for he had wandered up soundlessly beside Serge.

Serge nodded, rubbing his hands all the while so that they might be kept warm. Crono smiled, understanding the mood upon him.

"That I understand well, true friend."

He swept the snow from nearest battlement, rested his hands on it, and cast his gaze out over the wide lands of Guardia that lay before them, strewn with a ghostly sheet of snowfall.

"Yes, I know how you must feel. I have been in exile for nearly half my life, and should still be, had not four of my truest friends aided me. I owe what I have now to you, Serge, and likewise do my people. You know that whatever you wish for is yours if it is mine to give. Stay how long you will, and take what you wish. But what do I say? You do not care for such things."

Serge stepped up beside him, the chill air freezing his lungs with every breath.

"These lands aren't where I belong."

"All too true," Crono affirmed with a nod. "One must live where one's heart lies, else life tires. So you wish to return home now, is this your thought? I had thought it so."

Serge nodded.

"Yes. By the sand beaches and palm trees are where I belong. And the sky's so much more blue," he said longingly, seeing the grey sky hang low above him.

Crono nodded.

"Let us not forget it is where the one you love resides."

Serge glanced to Crono beside him, who smiled sadly.

"What's that mean?"

"If you do not see that yourself, I will think you blind for all your musing. You miss her, Serge. You miss Leena greatly. Do I not know such things when I see them? I, too, was taken by love once, and am not blind to it in others; you may not see, perhaps, that I grant you. But we, the three of us, are your friends and comrades through battle and adventure, life and blood we may shed, but with her has always lain the greatest part of your heart. And to her you must return, for it will not allow you to remain apart at length without misgiving."

And how truly had Crono guessed his feelings. That, even as he had said, he himself was well near unaware of.

"Yes, I miss her too. I'm not fooling myself about that. Even before this began, when I still had those dreams, when I thought I was going insane, she always listened to me, with compassion, no matter what bothered me. I guess I should have seen it for what it really was then, but didn't. That was my blindness, and stupidity. All that was her love for me. And I loved her in return. Though I suppose I didn't understand it like I should of until I left; maybe we always made pains to hide it from each other, and acted like mere friends. But no, it took being apart from her to show me what it really was; maybe that's what I needed so that I could see it, but it makes me quite homesick at the moment."

"As I said, home is where your heart lives. This," he swept his hand about, "may be my home in name, but can never truly be so. Marle is perished, and so I always find heart-rest elusive."

Serge sighed. His friend was still pained by her death, and merely hit it better nowadays.

"You're right; you're older, wiser than me, and very right. I can't stay here longer than I have to. In spring, when the seas become better, I'm returning to El Nido."

Crono nodded.

"As you must. But take joy in your time here while it lasts. I daresay it will make the time of waiting pass all the swifter."

He turned and left, leaving Serge alone once again.

He had not told Crono all that was in his mind, certainly. As always doubts hovered there unspoken of, made all the more potent in this grim weather. He had no doubt of his love for Leena now. But what of her? Had she, too, come to such an understanding? Moreover, he had been gone many months now, sending no word and hearing naught of her. And so he had no assurance in any way that she still shared his love. And how could he even expect such a thing? She did not know even if he yet lived, or if he lay dead upon a battlefield. He had known the girl his entire life, from childhood on, and Leena was true to both words and unspoken bonds. But even so he would not have faulted her forgetting him, and it sat worrisomely upon him. He only prayed that her love had not waned in the passed time, and that the old saying holding that time apart strengthens love was not false.

And so it was that his waiting for spring were days filled with doubt and uncertainty, and the turn of the season could not come nearly soon enough. The winter appeared to last forever (and, in the north, Serge learned, was not counted equal in length to the other three, but was in truth the longest of all.) Yet spring came at last, and in early March the first green buds were sprouting in the trees. And even then the forests sparked alive with meandering streams and reborn life.

Yet the change of season was to Serge the signal bell that the time when he could return home was nearing.

It was on a day of early spring that Serge at last prepared to leave Guardia castle. Once, perhaps for the last, he strode up to the high battlements where he had been wonted to walk in mindful thought so many times the span of the winter. Crono stood there, gazing out across his vast kingdom with a mellow smile. Sadness still lingered in his mood, a melancholy that ever sat hidden within his countenance. Already he had earned repute as the quietest king that had yet sat upon the throne of Guardia, for he spoke little to any but his dearest friends save in need.

"Hey, Crono! I thought I'd find you up here," Serge greeted lightly.

Crono looked over at him, seemingly unsurprised, yet more likely it was only that he was startled from thought.

"Oh, greetings on this day, Serge. And all the more blessed for you, I think. Today is the day you leave us, then? You appear more joyful than I have seen you in many weeks."

Serge nodded.

"Yes. Going home at last."

"But it simply is not home," Crono replied for him, "as you have told me so many times. Have your farewells been said, then, and am I the last to give your journey blessing?"

"No. I'm not exactly sure where they are, but I thought I'd find you up here." Serge answered.

"Of course, Guardia in the spring is a sight not to be missed by those that care for beauty. But this land shall not last, Serge. Even as winter must at needs follow summer, Guardia must some day die, as is the way of all things in this world. We have merely given it new breath, for a lifetime, or a hundred years. That fate time shall tell. But it will come to pass, with certainty, that no one will remember us. Both our wars and our efforts will be utterly forgotten. It may be a fond wish to think that a thing might endure for eternity, but any that has lived some score of years in this world will know it to be naive. Ah, history tells a grim tale. Time, the merciless destroyer of the strong and mighty: all kingdoms and empires are destined to fall, and their tales pass into shadow. After all, who weeps for Carthage? Who laments the fall of noble Athens? Where now are the walls of once peerless Uruk? Countries rise and fall, and the pages of history are written red in the lifeblood of civilizations. And yet from the ashes arise new lands and people, forged from the death-pyres of the old. Rebirth, as surely as spring follows even the harshest winter. So time is not only a destroyer; it is also the redeemer, a creator of things more wondrous than ever before, though I deem it is a hard thing to see in the moment in which we live. It seems to bring death and endings only, but we must always remember that it brings rebirth, and new beginnings."

He paused, then seemed to have another thought, and his face darkened again, where it had been lightening a moment before.

"And then there is war. It seems to be the bane of mankind, and yet history itself is but a chronicle of our wars, petty or otherwise. Thirteen thousand years ago, I have heard it said, Zeal vanquished the kingdom of Astrad; near to a million died in that war, Schala has told me, yet the lives of every one of those that lived and died then is forgotten, by near everyone that lives now. What meaning then did their struggle have? What lasting end did it accomplish? It was a chasing after the wind, maybe, a toil of only vanity. And here we have fought a war that is but a small affray aside that, great though it may seem now to us. Our victory has reborn a kingdom; perhaps in a hundred years another such time of strife will wrest it away again, and put all this struggle at naught. And then the time will come when even the very name of Guardia is no longer spoken. On that day, what will the lives of these people mean? What will our lives mean, and what end will the struggle we endured have accomplished? Even as the men that fell in the battle over Astrad so long ago show us: in the eyes of history, nothing. Our lives are but a fleeting shadow; we grow for a season, are felled by the sickle of death, and are swept away like chaff in the wind of fate."

He paused in his words, and shook his head sadly.

"I speak too darkly. I have a kingdom in my hands: both crown and kingship are mine. But bereft of my queen I feel empty, even now, Serge. I take solace in the company of my son, but it will not ever assuage my grief. Never before did I take to such contemplations as I do now, or muse on the meaning of my deeds, or what lasting end I accomplish through them. I merely did and left such thoughts to the old and grey. But now I am upon the verge of such years; now, in a sorrow that will haunt me to my grave, I feel compelled to discover the reasons and truths behind my deeds, and the ways that govern this world. Not only that of my own mortality, but that of my kingdom, and of memory itself: it is ever-present in my mind.

"What I have come to see is this: that we would be fools to forget our past, for we must understand that to forget the deeds of our own forebears puts their lives and deeds to naught. In doing so we must then remember that if we are so swift to forget they that came before us, that will be the fate that will befall us as well; if we would wish to be remembered, we must first ourselves remember, and teach our children to do the same."

As he finished saying this his words trailed slowly, and he sat down wearily. At length he looked up again.

"But I have rambled beyond reason in my uncertainty. This was not my purpose; rather, I wished to ask you, Serge, to stay but a day longer. I beg this of you, for there is something I wish you to see. But it will not come till dawn tomorrow at earliest."

"What's that?" Serge asked, his curiosity suddenly wakened.

But Crono shook his head.

"Ah, but I wish you to be surprised by it. I assure you will be most pleased if you stay."

And how could Serge argue to this? He agreed to stay, but only that one more day. The days were becoming warmer, and he wished to be back in his village and with Leena before summer came.

The next day dawned bright and clear, with a certain chill edge upon the air.

"A true northern-spring morning!" Crono said with a laugh when Serge found him. "Here we do not put too much faith in the coming warmth. At times it snows well into May." He glanced at the sky, smiling. "But it is a fair guess to say that this is not one of those years. Ah, well, here you are, and I dare-say you are not much interested in the weather. So, come and see!"

He led the way to the furthest wall of the castle, from where a great deal of the lands of Guardia could be seen. The brown forest surrounding the castle was beginning to break into green, a sure sign that spring was here (and Serge had difficulty imagining that it might yet snow after such a time.) The sky was no longer grey, as was so often the case during the winter, but shone clear and blue. A cool spring sun greeted his eyes with soft but merry light.

"Ah, the land of Guardia. As I have said many a time: free. But it is not alone in this! Porre is retreating its fingers because of our victory."

"They're beaten?" Serge asked, quite surprised; from the manner in which Crono usually spoke, he would have never imagined Porre releasing its grip upon its lands willingly.

"Yes," Crono said, then added: "For a time. My heart forebodes ill in the coming year: Porre is wrathful at our victory, I am sure, and this retreat is but a foreshadowing of a gathering counterstrike, maybe. Yet for now we can be glad: your El Nido is free! The fight you thought to be only for a faraway kingdom has touched your own home dearly as well, it appears."

"But how do you know that?" Serge asked. "You haven't sent messengers to El Nido, have you?"

"Some, yes," he answered, "in spite of the peril of the winter storms. The seas clear early and are passable in February, but are still perilous until April. You see, I had heard rumours of the retreat of their armies, but I wished for surety in the report. And what I heard was true: not a ship of the Empire remains in El Nido. But what do you care of the affairs of state?" Crono said, shaking his head. "Yet in this lies the reason for my begging your staying. See over there, beyond the farthest reaches of the forest" he said, and pointed out at the wide lands all about, but most in particular to where the path of the forest trail wove from the plains beyond, through the woods and came at last to the fortress. Here could scarcely see anything that passed under the boughs, but even so he could discern a small company that wound their way down the road, perhaps a mile from the castle.

"You see those who walk down the road?" Crono asked.

In reply Serge nodded, to which Crono said:

"Those are the very messengers I sent to El Nido. But their errand was not all one of state affairs; they bring some tidings from your village as well."

"They do?" Serge asked, very much surprised.

"Yes. When I heard you speak of your wish for your home I made certain of it that you should at least hear tidings of it to lessen your longing. Come," he said, waving his hand in a command to have Serge follow him, "and you shall hear what they have to say."

He strode off along the wall and to the tower stairs. But Serge remained in his place for a short time thereafter, watching the company in the far distance wind its way among the trees, appearing and disappearing as the trail went along its way.

Ah, it would be good to hear some news from home once again. He had heard nearly none in all of the past few months, and was quite anxious to hear how his mother and friends and Leena were faring, especially now in the aftermath of war and the retreat of the Empire.

As the company passed into the last passage of the forest, Serge made his way from the battlements. It was a lengthy walk, down flights of spiralling stairs, and through not a few arched hallways, and lastly cross the great throne room itself, so when at last he came into the main courtyard the gates were already open, and the travellers inside.

Here were a few merchants with unusual wares (or, rather, unusual to the eyes of Guardia; to Serge they were very much common), but more numerous were the officials and heralds, bearing dragon-crossed banners and arrayed in dress of red, gold, and black. And least of all, and far most astounding to Serge, was perhaps the most simple of all that stood among them. For here, to his full amazement, was Leena.

For a fleeting moment he thought it to be some illusion or half-seen memory born of the wish of his mind. But it was not so: she truly stood there, real amidst the men of office and trade.

"Leena?" he asked, but said little more, for such was his surprise.

"Of course!" she cried, indignant, but at once her face softened into a smile. "They've told me all about your battles and the like. I thought it best to come here, seeing as I didn't know when you'd actually get around to coming back with all these battles or yours."

Serge could hardly keep his joy at hearing her voice and words hidden.

"I was leaving today," he said.

"I know," she answered with a smile. "Your friend Crono sent a message to me at the harbour when we landed, and told me to hurry to stop your leaving."

"You wanted to see me so much that you came all the way from home?" Serge said, his voice becoming soft.

She nodded at this, as any looking upon the exchange would have expected. To Serge, however, who had spent so many long days in uncertainty over her feeling toward him, it had not at first been so clear. But now he ceased caring for all else, and the gladness of his heart at seeing her was magnified ten-fold, for he saw that she yet bore him love even as she had before, and looking toward her eyes he felt that it were greater now than before.

At that moment everything became aright to his mind, and every concern vanished as though they had never been.

After they spoke many tender words to each other, as is the way with two who love each other dearly and have been perforce separate for a long while (and even more so when such a thing as war has been the dividing wedge.) As it was, Serge was so enlivened by having Leena's company again that he fully forgot his desire to return home. The days thereafter were more pleasant than any he had spent for months. Indeed, absence had made their love manifest, and all the more sweeter, and they spent their days merely speaking. On occasion they would talk a space about the war, but Serge cared little for any of those things of last autumn, and all his thoughts were now turned toward Leena.

Little enough needs be said of the things that passed in the following days, save for this:

When Leena had stayed there for little more than a week, it came into Serge's mind, which was now freed from the shackles of both war and heroic duty, to ask Leena to wed (for in all his troubles with the war he had at least come to the full realization that he loved her, and that there was little reason in delaying such a thing for longer.) And, being of like mind to him in the matter, she readily consented to it.

In truth, however, the whole thing was a somewhat humorous affair to those that witnessed it, for it ran so.

Serge had reached his decision to ask her favour in the matter on a sudden one day. Upon reaching his decision, and being suddenly enflamed to it, and unwilling to wait in the asking (less his nerve fail him ere he asked it) he sped up to her even in the middle of the court, where she stood. He had had the intent of bowing to a knee, and gracefully asking marriage of her, but as he came forward he faltered in his steps and, far from approaching her in a noble manner, found himself lying at her feet most ungracefully. Few there were in the court that did not laugh, in despite of the formality of tradition, for, to see a hero, who had fought through dire battles and wielded terrible power, be overcome by the very floor struck even the most stern of lords as a laughing matter. For Serge's part it made the whole thing all the more difficult. He stood and greeted Leena meekly, glancing nervously at the dimming laughter. But, dismissing his own embarrassment and fear, he at last took her hand suddenly in his and asked her, even there and after such a foolish display, saying simply:

"Marry me, Leena?"

Of course this could be counted among the least eloquent of all such requests but, seeing as it was not something she had looked for at that moment, she was put into a most awkward place (for which she after reproached him in her wonted way of feigned vehemence.) But could think of nothing else to say other then to accept his words. For she knew herself well enough to know what she wished, perhaps being wiser than he in heart-felt matters, and had in truth secretly hoped for it for a great length of time.

The news of the marriage spread swiftly around the castle. The others of the company, Crono, Janus, and Schala, were the first to be told. Crono was greatly pleased to hear that such a thing had come of his certain gift of bringing Leena to Guardia. Janus merely said: "Wonderful," and though this could have easily been in mockery, it was likely that it was simply as short a congratulations as he could think of to say. Schala, for her part, was somewhat more graceful, saying: "A blessed day indeed. But may it be more blessed when the promise becomes oath."

Yet upon the eve-tide of that day Janus found his sister alone upon the battlements of the keep, pacing with a disquieted mood about her.

Janus frowned at his sister.

"Are you not pleased with this news? I think it troubles you somewhat."

Schala smiled faintly.

"Troubles? No. And yet..." she sighed, and looked the other way.

But ere she turned, her brother had read her mood, and he peered at her curiously, and in surprise.

"You love him. That is it, is it not?"

"Love him?" she said vaguely, still glancing upon the setting sun. "By all the company of heaven, yes. From the deepest chambers of my heart, I do. That is why I sought him out again from the other world," she turned to her brother, "despite what I may have told you. And do not tell me you could not see through my poorly feigned words."

He merely shrugged it aside.

"Such things are foreign to me. I am inclined to see love as the chief downfall of heroes. I assure you, I could not till now."

"Then you are not as wise as I thought," she said, and buried her head in her hands. "I must keep assuring myself this is all best. So! he chooses Leena, and my love-blinded hopes are cheated."

"You never spoke to him of it," Janus muttered, and she replied:

"Were it strong enough in him, he should have felt it without the need for words. Even as it is twixt the two of them. And seeing that, I now ask myself what could I give him as it is."

"You can give him your love, just as she does," Janus replied. "If poets speak true, what greater gift can a woman give to a man, sister?"

She shook her head and turned once more to the sun.

"Yes, that I surely can. Yet love is not a river that flows but one way, Janus. Would he love me? I think not."

He frowned at her in disagreement.

"Would he not? You are in his heart as well, that much, at least, I have seen. He cares for you more than he might concede even to himself. And was it not his love that saved you so long ago?"

"Ah yes, that he did. Had he not loved me, that dragon relic could never have redeemed me," she paused in uncertainty, thinking deeply about those times they had shared. At last she said:

"He loves part of me, I deem. He loves Kid, that free spirit. But she no longer exists, at the very least not as she once did."

She struck the stone before her in grief.

"Curse that! Now part of me is also Schala, whom he has never known before. And I would not have him love but part of me. Such a thing must be shared fully, else it is only a mockery of what it should be."

"And so you would allow him to wed another?" Janus asked.

She sighed, dropping her shoulders sadly, looking to the stone floor, and said:

"Yes, I would."

She glanced up again.

"I love him greatly enough to wish what is best for him, in spite of what my own girlish heart may desire. His longing is one whom he may love with his whole heart, and who can return it in full. Such a union I cannot give him. Perhaps that vagabond Kid could have, had things been different. Yet that now is a thing lost forever."

Janus quickly replied, and said:

"But what of those things she does not have? You have wisdom, and strength beyond the reckoning of that peasant maid!"

"Wisdom?" she wondered aloud. "Perhaps I do, though such a thing only others can truly judge."

She swept her hand dismissively and began pacing, saying:

"But shall he love the princess of a fallen land? No, I should not think so. Might and sigaldry, it truly is a curse. I do not want this! I would rather have his love than ten times my power; yet how can one deny what they are? I am Schala, latest princess of old Zeal. And I am of like power to him, for there are few living that may command such true sorcery, and the four of us are almost as kin now; too near in some ways for love.

"Crono and Marle were of like power, were they not?" he countered. "You do not speak with reason, but rather make excuses to ease what you feel you must do. Yet the way of things is hardly set, even now."

But she shook her head.

"What once was between us is now lost, forever. Kid will never more be without Schala, and only in such a thing could any bond of love have been found. I have seen this: his heart craves peace and simplicity, as the simple devoted love that Leena bears towards him. That is what he wishes for. And that is what I cannot give him, in despite of all my will. Accursed fate! I am ancient in wisdom, yet still trammelled to the loves of a maiden heart! What wicked chance brings this paradox to be? Each calls the other folly in my mind, and I cannot see which to obey. Which is more noble a thing: to love wisdom and knowledge, or to love another. Janus, bless your fortune that you are not so divided."

"I rather bless my fortune that I do not care for such loves at all," he answered, but she laughed a little, saying:

"I did not curse it, and neither should you be so thankful. It is a wondrous thing when requited, yet if not it can be harsh to bear. Such, it seems, is my fate."

She turned her face to see the last rays of the sun, fading behind the far hills. She grasped the stone of the battlement, and Janus could plainly see she was making a choice difficult to accept.

"So I will deny my heart and dissemble my feelings. And I wish the best for him. I hope their love may never fade, and be as that between Crono and Marle: strong even past death. Yet my coming was not wholly in vain. His friend I was, and that I remain, until the end of things."

She turned to her brother, and he could see slight tears in the corners of her eyes. She smiled ever so slightly, and then looked at him grimly.

"But he must never learn of what I have just said. I will not have him doubt his heart once again! Janus, I charge you as my brother not to say a word: if you ever speak to Serge of this, I will make certain of it that you never speak another word in your life again."

Perhaps it was an ill timed jest but, yet again, he did not fully understand his sister's heart in many matters. And he would not wish to cross her for any love or hate.

The day of the marriage came swiftly, and it was certainly grand. The courts of the fortress were thronged with people, both inside and outside the cathedral. The magnificent stained-glass once again adorned the windows, and the symbol of a great cross set therein was aflame with sunlight. And far below, at the foot of the alter, Serge knelt before the Archbishop. At his left hand was Leena, upon her knees as well, and bedecked in as fine array of samite as could be found in all the kingdom. A crown of silver flowers, crafted by some master silversmith, adorned her head. Her hazel hair was woven with wild-flowers in the custom of the brides of Guardia. Serge could not remember a day on which she had looked more beautiful to his eyes, or when he had loved her more.

He himself was dressed in a gilded robe that Crono had presented him with; a very costly gift, no doubt. Upon his finger he wore a ring of true-silver; its match was on Leena's, and was to be in remembrance of the oaths they were to take. These, too, were gifts from the kingdom of Guardia, and were or worth such as not even the lords of his islands were accustomed to wear.

"Before God and man," the bishop said, his voice in a strange manner grave and kindly, "will you swear to bind yourselves to each other for all your lives."

Serge nodded.

"I swear to hold Leena, daughter of Miguel, as my wife and companion. Before God and man I will swear this, and abide with it until death, or the world's ending."

"And I likewise bind myself to Serge, son of Wazuki, for life until death," Leena replied.

The bishop then replied: "Then before God and all Men, and by the authority given to me in representation of our Holy Lord, you are now husband and wife. Arise in this new union, and in the knowing that you are not two but one."

He made the sign of the Cross between them, and they rose.

"My king," the Archbishop said to Crono who stood nearby, "will you, too, bless this marriage, and pray that God keep it?"

"I will indeed," he replied, coming forward. "As king of this realm, may you be blessed here forevermore, Leena and Serge. May your days be joyous, and never grow dim."

And bowing he returned to his place with a gracious smile.

Then all cheered aloud, for Serge, though of a foreign land, was indeed one of their heroes, and to see him so upon such a joyful day gave them happiness. And only Janus could perceive that, though all smiled greatly and laughed with the mirth of the day, one there was whose countenance bore a hidden sadness.

And with this marriage the spring came joyfully, and not a tear was in any eye in those days, unless it was of joy. Everyone, from the King to the meekest peasant, felt an assurance of better days, and that the end of their fifteen year struggle was come at last.

* * *

**CONCERNING THE HISTORY OF ZEAL OF THE THOUSAND NAMES**

From the preface to the volumes pertaining to it in the later writings of the mistress of lore, Schala Faeri:

It is often thought, wrongly, that the time of the dominion of Zeal was for only one generation. It lasted, rather, for a span of no less than one thousand years, over the course of which near to thirty kings and queens ruled from its throne. Certainly it did not possess its great might at its founding: that grew through its ages until it became the greatest and most powerful kingdom that the world had ever seen, and perhaps shall ever see.

The first king was, in origin, a captain of some renown in the kingdom of Antaras which thrived yet in those years. He had fought countless battles both upon the sea and in the northern wastes (that in those years were still encroaching further south). It came to pass, in time, that this captain rose to such power amongst his people that he was made king of all Antaras, and took the name Ter-Meredior, which is 'the king who is a man of glory' in the old tongue of that land.

When he had sat on the throne for but a few years he summoned to his court all the greatest of the sorcerers of men from all corners of the earth, and spoke to them concerning a grand dream that had come to him for many nights. He told of a fortress and city, built high amongst the clouds of heaven, untouched by the tumults of the earth. Upon hearing this all the people and wizards were amazed, and wondered at how it might be accomplished, whereat the king brought forth a great treasure that had for long been forgotten. This, it is said, was the ancient gem known as Selinost, or dreamstone. And he spoke saying the following words:

"This is a gem of great power and ancientry, kept safe and secret by my kin since the first days, and through it may many things of wonder be achieved. Yea, even this dream that I have had! Though the years of building may be long, should this come to fulfilment, as I indeed think it our destiny to be, we shall be the greatest of all mortal kingdoms, and may in time encroach even upon the realms of immortality."

And all who heard his words that day thought them to be exceedingly fair and wonderful, though long after, in the years following the Great Ruin, it was thought that perhaps the dreams and thoughts that brought about the kingdom of Zeal were not so pure, and born only out of man's sinful desire for unending life and power. But for then things seemed yet good, though in the great will shown by Ter-Meredior this new kingdom was named Selevroth (that is Zeal in the latter tongue of the west.) For zealous indeed was the king, as were all the people of the earth as they rose to help him in this endeavour.

And even as he had prophesied, it was not short in building. Great towers and cities, more fair than aught others that graced the earth in that age, were raised on the plains of Rosannoth. These fields were a hundred leagues across, and lay in the west-most lands of Antaras.

And then at last the long awaited day arrived, and there gathered all the sorcerers of the world, from least to greatest, and they ringed about the entire field. And in the very centre of the plains, upon the tower of the King, upon a spire of gilded limestone, stood Ter-Meredior. Holding high the dreamstone, he spoke ancient words of power long since forgotten, and it is said that his voice that day echoed even across to the verge of the plain, and all the magicians who heard it took up the call. And even as they did so the land shook and a great earthquake began. An lo! the plains themselves, bound to the sigaldry of the king and the stone of dreams, rose from the earth. As the day waxed the plains loosed themselves from their bond to the earth. And so, in that day, was the kingdom of Zeal born.

Little else is remembered, for the later people of that fair land were more eager to remember their own deeds than those of their forebears, but this at least is remembered: that when the twilight grew dim on that day, and the great shadow of Zeal for the first lay long upon a wondering earth, a prophet by the name of Tiresias stepped forward. He was blind, and had had no part in the great raising, for his powers were only those of foresight. Then he stood tall amongst the wizards, and raised high his voice so that all heard. And he cried:

Hear me, children of this new kingdom! On this day is born what is fated to be the greatest of the kingdoms of men, so rejoice! But do not hold too dear this land of your making, nor become too enamoured of its fair halls, nor forget that you are but mortal. For behold! I see in the sky circling ten ravens. For each of these will this land last one hundred years, and in this time will it prosper and grow, and none shall surpass it in beauty or might; all shall flock to its halls and call it blessed. But when the tenth raven has died, then beware! For should you have forgotten who you are, and that you are mortal, then shall you find all that you have built and hold dear crumble to ruin."

Then most jeered, and mocked him for but a blind fool. But the wisest of those that heard the words took especial thought to them, and never did they or their children forget those words that were spoken. And so when, after a thousand years, the last queen of Zeal, Tiros-Rosmered, sought to take the power of the ancient demon Lavos for her own, so as to become immortal, there were some that became wary, and remembered well the words of the old seer. And these worked in secret against her designs, in guard against the prophesied day of ruin they feared was nigh. But this is told elsewhere, in the great lay _The Fall of Zeal_ and, also, in the poem called _Tirnis Selevrotho_, or the _Princess of Zeal_, which recounts the grim fortunes that befell the last daughter of that great house. Yet her tale is woven into many another, and has no place in this chronicle.

**REGARDING THE LAST OF THE DESCENDANTS OF GLORIOUS ZEAL**

As recorded in the tenth and final Annal of Zeal scribed by the Lady Schala Faeri:

Some, indeed, of the noble and high lineage of Zeal outlived the cataclysm that whelmed their kin. These, however, became but a shadow and a memory of what they had been before the Ruin. At the time of the height of Zeal those that lived upon its blessed land became so fair and powerful that they seemed no less than Nephila (that is, angels), descended to earth from the realms of high heaven. But after the Fall their glory and power dwindled, so that their splendour was no more than that of others, and the light of their eyes was dimmed as they wept over what they had lost through their own pride and folly. Through the countless years they were mingled with the lesser peoples, and in time all that they had been was forgotten. Only a few yet held the ancient heritage that had graced those of Zeal, and in after days they arose as mighty memories of that forgotten golden age, and those who beheld them and the deeds that were performed through them were in awe. For the strength of the ancient world was in their limbs, and the glory of Zeal shone like a memory from their eyes. Chief of these were the last two children of the ruling house of that downfallen kingdom, named Janus and Schala.

Schala, the elder, fell through much torment because of the Fall, and was made subject to the very evil she had striven against, the might of the demon Rosroth (who was named once Lavos, in a tongue all but forgotten, even by the time of Zeal.) Yet in time her bonds were shattered, mostly through the works and cunning of the master named Balthasar, who was once a subject lord under her hand, for she had been the princess of Zeal, before her darkness. Balthasar, being a man of high nobility and honour, held her to be his liege-lady, even though her torment seemed hopelessly eternal. Yet seemingly in despite and scorn of fate he achieved the end of her rescue, and so redeemed her through both the works of his own hand, and by the guiding of the destines of other heroes (of whom the chief of these was the one after called Saereth Masamune, which signifies "The swordsman of the Masamune," for it was indeed that sword that he carried; but forgotten to history he was, in his youth, known by other names.) In the later days of her life, when she had been saved, her eyes became once more as one of Zeal undimmed: shining like twin stars, and even as profound.

Janus was the younger of the two. He was also swept away in the great Ruin, though in a way unlike that of Schala, who was his sister. He, rather, was by chance, or maybe fate, winged to the time when the eastern Mystics who held Medina threatened the western world with war and conquest. But being at that time but a youth of scarcely five years, he fell in with the ranks of the East. From them he learned such ways of sorcery and spellcraft as was known in later days, and through the dark nature of his teachers his mind was darkened. But the power of Zeal that was in his blood was strong, mightier than any other that was on the earth in later days. Spells he learned, and bettered them. And enchantments there were that he knew that were a mystery to all others even among his teachers. So it came to pass in time that he rose to such high standing amidst the ranks of Mystics that they took him to be their king, and even the proudest and strongest of their lords bowed to him and pledged fealty to his rule. So, when at last the leaguer of Medina was broken and the storm of the assault of the East broke heavy upon the Western lands of Zenan, upon both Porre and mighty Guardia, they were lead by he. To his enemies he was a mysterious figure, a dark sorcerer of supreme power (for which he was named in fear Magus, the Sorcerer), and his coming on the battlefield was a herald of doom, for enmeshed in shadows he appeared as a figure of frightening terror, and only the boldest would stand firm against the onslaught of his dread guard. This might seemed near divine to those who beheld it, and some there were that whispered that their enemies were led by the very prince of darkness himself, and that to take arms against him would be fruitless. But, in truth, it was that none anymore knew of the mortal power that had been possessed by the children of the great kingdom of Zeal, and so to lesser men he seemed to be mighty beyond compare (for none there had ever seen the armies of Zeal as they had been of old; if Janus was mighty upon the later fields, he was but one, and the gathered hosts of old Zeal were said to number greater than one hundred thousand, and shone like a legion of angels). Yet even in this darkness of conquest the cunning of his lineage did not sleep, and neither did his pride. For he was consumed in a fiery fervour for vengeance against the demon that had wrested from his kingdom and birthright. Behind the veil of his darkness and sorcery his dauntless mind bethought itself a way in which to find redress for his loss, and slay the ancient demon. This is a long tale, and is a web of intertwining destines and fates, and spans many an age. But at long last he, even as his sister had, found himself free from the burden of both darkness and vengeance.

Thus until their deaths there lived two at least who echoed of the glory of the ancient world, of Zeal the Lost and the greatness of those who had dwelt therein.

In all history only three others there were that kept alive the ancient traditions of Zeal. These were known by many names, but here it might be said that they were the three chief lords of the land of Zeal and, moreover, were men of great wisdom and knowledge, and lived by nobility and honour that might rival the most righteous of kings. But being born of Zeal they, too, fell under the Judgement, though in all the evil later deeds of the kingdom they were blameless (having fought against them).

Eldest of the three was the one named in later traditions Gaspar. His mind was keenest to understand the workings of fate and destiny, and marvelled over the road of time, seeking to understand time itself. It is held that in this he did in some measure succeed for, though it was often later thought to be but myth, he indeed forged a thing of great power and destiny. In legend this is remembered as the Time Egg. Thereafter he forged two more, and these he gave to his two peers. But this deed went even beyond his wisdom, for world stood at the edge of ruin, and it would be these things of his that would be the sword by which the evil would be undone.

Second before him in years was a man of great worldly knowledge, named Balthesar in most lore. Kingly and tall, and marked with a great beard of white, he was held by those under him to be nearly king-like. But, as his two nearest friends, he did not care for glory overmuch. His chief love was in the making of things, and in the understanding of the truths that reside in and govern the world as it is seen to the senses. Little of the ways that pass under the watch of the sun was unknown to him, and with many devices he even looked far into the heavens as an astrologer, marking the movements of the stars and planets. In after years he would have been known as a man of science, but as yet in Zeal no such thing was known, and he it was that first gave birth to many of those ideals that were later re-learned by those knowledgeable men of the Hellenes (of whom Aristotle was chief.) He mastered the rules of the world, and knew the ways in which to turn them to his own ends, forging wondrous creations: a great flying machine, devices uncounted, and even the great time-ship called Epoch, used in the salvation of the world by the Great Hero, is accounted to his hand.

Youngest of the three Masters was the kindest, named Melchior (that is 'the man who performs deeds of skill' in the tongue of Zeal.) As Balthesar he was renowned wide for the creating of marvellous works, and yet they were of a different sort. Whereas the elder Balthesar saw all with worldly eyes, Melchior thought upon things differently, and looked rather for the truths and realities that lay behind things, rather than in them. Swords and arrays of weaponry he oft fashioned, yet he looked at them not as things of steel and iron with which to cleave flesh, but rather as destroyers of life and at what would be accomplished through them, seeing all with a mind of philosophy, and more apt to magic. While Balthesar looked to the earth and skies, and Gaspar to the past and future, Melchior was wont to discover what laws bound all these unseen beyond the understanding of knowledge, and ever held that truth lay not within things, but behind them in a realm of spirits unseen to the eyes of Man (very much, indeed, as Plato would later hold the world to be.) It was not, then, to be wondered at that of all things he was most renowned for, chief was the forging of the great sword Masamune, the sword of dreams and angels, as some named it. For it was fashioned of Selinost Dreamstone, and through his understanding he gave birth to the brethren spirits of the blade that later would do great deeds in the service of righteousness. But in counter of his smithing of weapons, he was compassionate, despising death and battle, and taking part in such things only by the wisdom that they need be at times. Yet life he ever held in highest regard, holding it to be a glimpse in this world of the Power that lies beyond the understanding of Men, and is the truth in and behind all things.

So ends the chronicle of the fortunes of Zeal. Thereafter the world lived in many an age of darkness, till nine millennia later the rise of the kingdoms of Uruk and Egypt signalled the renewed birth of civilizations. In the years that then followed there were empires and kingdoms without count, many of which are remembered to history: Babylon, the people of Akkad, Assyria and the Hittites, and a thousand others, to be succeeded by the time of the Hellenes, in which art and things of beauty once again began to rival Zeal. This, and the tales of after days, is told elsewhere.

(Last Edited Septemeber 21, 2004)


	19. Shadows From the South

CHAPTER XVIII

**SHADOWS FROM THE SOUTH

* * *

**

Fate is never fully kind in its dealings with men. Ever and anon when a seeming end is reached, and all prepare to rest after hard labour, it is found that it is simply the beginning. And so it was with Guardia.

It was upon the thirteenth of April that the tidings came to the castle: an army was marching north from Porre.

When Serge rushed into the council hall the other four were already gathered, all standing about the great table. Upon it was spread a map of the continent of Zenan. The four were in the midst of earnest discussion, but when Serge came in they looked up and greeted him.

"How bad is it?" he asked at once, striding to the table.

Janus shrugged his shoulders.

"I myself have only now arrived, and Crono has not told us yet," he said, glancing at the king. "Crono?"

Crono leaned over the map, tracing his fingers along a region that covered the entire north of Porre.

"I have learned that they are somewhere in these lands as we speak, and marching north by the day."

"What is this you say?" Janus asked, looking over the map carefully. "You mean to say that they are only coming by land? Not by ship? That would be a peculiar thing for Porre; they are a sea power, and have ever favoured swift landings to long marches."

"It is most certainly strange," Crono said. "And it disquiets me. But my spies have told me that every ship in their fleet is yet harboured. Their entire North Army is marching north, however," he said grimly. "That is not a light matter; it is their strongest by far: eight field divisions from the north provinces; that is four legions of two and a half thousand men: the seventh, eighth, ninth, and the twelfth. A full ten thousand men-at-arms, and they will without doubt field their cavalry."

Serge whistled.

"They really want Guardia back, don't they," he said awestruck.

"It appears so," Crono replied. "And we haven't the forces to match theirs."

"Where will they strike?" Schala asked, then of her own understanding answered: "They must mean to come direct to this fortress. One does not send ten thousand to harry farmers and villagers."

Crono nodded.

"Indeed not. But we cannot hold out in a siege against such a legion, not unless the hosts of heaven stood by my side. Ai, ai..." he muttered, looking down at the great map. At last, as if coming to a firm decision, he nodded his head, and said: "But one course is left to us. They are coming by land, and therefore they..."

"They must cross the Zenan Bridge," Janus said for him. "As my armies did as well, over four hundred years ago. We found your welcome on the far side more grim than we had looked for, however. A most grievous affray for my army, I must admit."

Crono shook his head.

"It will not be so glorious now," he said with a distant voice. "The waytower that guards the middle will not stand, and on the far side we are most surely outnumbered. If I were to raise every able man and boy in this entire land, we would have how many?"

"Forty thousands, father," Sigurd replied at once. "And that would be the boldest, only. If need pressed, we could rally thrice that."

"But by next week?" he said shaking his head. "When we rallied Guardia last winter seven thousand stood by my side. I do not think to do much better this spring. Perhaps nine thousand, if we are fortunate. And, moreover, I must leave some to hold this castle. I do not reckon on more than eight thousand." He appeared grim as he added: "Eight against ten."

"We have nothing to fear," Sigurd replied with a smile. "Guardia has ever been outmatched, and always prevailed in the end. Your Mystics, my Lord Janus, are a testament to this."

Janus nodded bitterly, perhaps ill-favoured over being reminded of such a defeat.

"Twenty five thousand I sent north. I lost two full legions in the first battles, and you lost but hundreds. Guardia was certainly stronger four hundred years ago yet, even so, how much does a people change?"

Crono sighed, saying:

"Many things made that victory: your Field-Lord was a fool, and overran his victories into traps. And in that year our longbows were yet a new thing, as fearful to your armies as the guns of Porre would later be to ours: we shot our arrows as though they were rain, and ever kept ourselves at a distance from your swords. But we cannot look for such a victory here."

"And yet it is only ten thousands now," Sigurd pressed. "My Lords and my father: I would counsel we march."

For a brief space there was silence. Then Crono nodded with agreement.

"It is the only course left to us, rash though it may seem. We cannot hold this castle forever, and in marching now we may at least make the battleground of our choosing. If we can force the battle to be in the Annoth-Tin fields at the bridgehead, then it may be better for us. The land there is good for the defenders."

"Ah, wonderful," Sigurd replied. "When do we march?"

"A week's time; I think that both more and less should lead us to ruin," Crono said. "At the end of this I will lead the army south, with Schala, Serge, and Janus in my company."

"But," Sigurd said, suddenly angered, "what then of me? You would leave me behind?"

"You shall remain in the fortress, and be the steward of Guardia," Crono answered.

"Do you not trust my sword in the field? Any chancellor can rise to such a position!" Sigurd replied in rising anger.

"No, child," Crono said softly, "if it is royal blood it would be for the best. You shall stay, and mount a final defence of the fortress if ends come to it."

Sigurd turned away sharply.

"Royal blood is meaningless in Guardia," he muttered. "You yourself, father, are of common blood. And is not every kingly line but risen from the ranks of commoners? I pray, do not leave me to sit idle on a throne! Do you think so little of my sword that you so lightly throw it aside?"

Crono sighed, but would not yield.

"Whatever might be, I am yet king, and will not have my wishes gainsaid, not even by you. It is my will that you be Steward, and by that choice you will abide, whether you wish it or no."

Sigurd glanced crossly at his father and, with not a word, strode from the chamber with an angered pace.

"Crono, you might have been a space kinder to your son," Janus said when at last the heavy footsteps had died away.

"Kinder? Do not make me laugh. Who are you to admonish kind words, or to deal advice on the raising of a prince? I have no need for your words on this matter," he said, casting a vexed look upon him.

"Yet remember, Crono, that you look upon a prince. Think you that a commoner such as you can raise a kingly heir better than one of high lineage? Knowledge of it is in my very blood, and if you were wise you should listen to my counsels."

"A commoner? If you look about you, Janus, take note that I am a held to be a king, in despite of what I may have been at my birth. You, friend, are bereft of your titles; save for the lordship I have granted you in this land of mine, you have no standing greater than that of a commoner."

Janus did not take kindly to these words, as might well be thought.

"Ai! Do not be a fool and cross me! To be a prince of Zeal, if only for one's youth, is a greater honour than to be even king of such a land for a millennia; tis better to be servant among gilt jewels than lord of ashes, the saying went in Zeal. And aside my ancient land, what more is Guardia than a field of dust?"

"Curse you," Crono muttered under his breath. "Do you not see that you are the only fool? For all your high-held blood lineage, this kingdom of mine outfought your precious Mystics; only in numbers did you press forward your assaults, and with heavy loss, as you must surely remember. History judges that, in the end, we won that war. It stands as a testament to your weak skill at rule and kingship."

At which Janus cast a most bitter scowl at Crono.

"Arrogant child," he hissed, and turned about, perhaps angered for the twofold reason of Crono's words being truth, and he finding no fitting reply to them. He strode to the door with yet more vehemence than Sigurd had done a minute before, and flung it open.

"Curses upon you for eternity; I had thought that you would have learned some wisdom, at least, in our time apart. But you are as foolish as ever, Lord Kronos."

Without another word he strode into the far hall, leaving only three.

"He's always been like that, hasn't he?" Serge asked of Schala as Crono, too, left, leaving the two alone for whatever words they might share.

Schala nodded.

"Very nearly. At the very least so long as he can remember, which is since he was a young child."

She turned and looked at him with a strange eye.

"You think ill of him for it? Serge, do not fault him too much: he has suffered the span of his life. Remember what he has said: Lavos has left a deep scar. He knows his own follies well enough, I dare-say, but cannot act contrary to what is his nature. I am certain he repents most bitterly every day of his vehemence and anger, but is cursed with being ever in thrall to it. And this, too: if you would judge him, you must do the very same against me, for he and I are not so far removed of mind."

"No, you're quite different," Serge said quite adamantly. "He's very bitter with nearly everyone, even his friends; I'm glad that I can usually avoid him. But you seem calm, and..."

"You have said it! I seem one way. But, Serge, twixt, how I appear and how I truly am there is a great disparity, as it is with many things. Be wary in this world, and discern closely. For my mood is nearly the same as his," she said with a deep sigh. "I but dissemble it through a greater will, and allow what wisdom is mine to overrule foolish and misleading passion."

"I still don't believe it," Serge replied. But he saw or, rather, took a nearer note of his memory, thinking for the first the grim tone in which Schala spoke of some things.

"Have you never looked into my eyes?" she said to his disbelief. "Have you never seen that evil flame that burns within me?"

He nodded, and to his mind come the memory of her fell battle-mood. He had wondered about it at the time, but the continuing war had driven it from his mind. Only now did he think on it again.

"I am still a slave to that evil," she said softly. "And ever I am on the brink of falling to its corruption, and so I must always guard myself. That is why I do not welcome this new war. I do not wish to give that darkness a free hand to overcome me. And my heart forewarns me that if battle should fall upon us, which seems now a certainty, it will be difficult to restrain all my dark strength. This is even as it is for Janus, who is still a slave to his own dark will at times."

"Kid," he said, stressing her younger name, perhaps without thought saying it in the uncertainty of this dark talk, "how can you compare yourself to him? I've never heard you say anything wrong of anybody."

"Not with voice, no. But if you mark my eyes, the disdain is there nonetheless. To most my words are but lies or, rather, I say what I deem I should say, rather than what I feel and wish. I abhor the weakness that is shown by this rabble of peasants, though my reason tells me it is a groundless and dark pride, and only a grain of memory of my princess-hood grown to over-bearing pride through the corrupting touch of Lavos. But sins of the mind are no less grievous than those of speech."

"But your brother's way more critical and proud than you ever are, I'm sure," Serge insisted, but Schala only said:

"Ha! Is he, now? Again, Serge, you would be much mistaken if you think that that which is put forth in words is the only truth. To you I hold no ill feelings, but I am not as joyful as I may appear. Schala is every bit as bitter as Janus is," she paused a moment, then said: "No, the darkness is deeper. My brother had his mind tainted by ill teaching of sorcery and ceaseless thoughts of dark vengeance. But I, Schala of Zeal, am far darker than he, for I was joined with the blackest evil to ever afflict this world. If Lavos has left a mark upon Janus, how much more has he left a scar upon me. But for Kid, I would not be so much different than he is. Her righteousness, and Schala's wisdom, are perhaps the only things that hold the evil in guard."

She turned from Serge.

"Pray for my sake, and all those whom I might call enemy, that they never fail."

----

Schala did not speak to him more about such things, and he thought it best not to press her. If truth be told, it did not sit well with him to hear her speak so. He had ever thought her to be a soul matchless in goodness: someone to whom he and all people might look up to and learn ways of righteousness from. But when she spoke as she had, it dispelled any such grand thoughts, and tainted his memory of her. He wondered even after what, fully, she had meant by it. He realised himself slightly naive to think her unchanged by the Tesseract, and that the Chrono Cross could have cured all her hurts. But that her scar ran yet so deep? He had not fully understood that. She had ever made pains to hide it from him, and he had purposefully blinded himself to seeing it. For, though she was surely still his best of friends, she was not who she had once been, and would never again be that one.

He often spoke about this to Leena, but she counselled him to leave Schala to her own. After all, she said, Schala was, for the most part, an ancient princess whose lineage was higher and greater than any who yet lived save Janus alone. She did not need the counsel of any others, and if she willed it she would ask.

Even so he tried at questioning Janus about it more than once, but all the wizard would tell him was: "Schala is not a slave to anything but herself, and she is her own counsellor. Even I do not question her concerning this matter."

And so it was left at that, and all the while the preparations for war went onward, growing apace as the days wore nearer to when they must march. As could be expected, Leena did not take well to the prospect of yet another war, and more than once put forward that it might be best that they return to El Nido ere it began. But Serge was adamantly unwilling to leave Guardia to its own devices. Not only was he bound to it by friendship to its king, but he had been knighted now as a lord of its realms, and honour, then, compelled him to the war.

The twentieth of April dawned as might be expected in such a land as Guardia. The frost was heavy on the ground, the outcome of the springtime warring between the outgoing winter and approaching summer. But the sky was clear and blue, and bode well for the future. At the very least it was a more pleasant to set out upon than if it had been drear and cloudy. Serge took the early hours to one last time stand upon the battlements, as he had ever so many times in the winter months since they had laboured to retake this fortress.

"Omens may be but illusions of memory and the mind," Crono said, wandering up beside Serge. "But still, I feel that this is a fair beginning. The day is fresh and clear, and lightens my spirits."

Serge nodded, looking out over the plains of Guardia that seemed somewhat grey with the morning frost.

"For sure. Are we leaving yet?"

Crono shook his head.

"Not so soon. The first of the supply wains begin to leave late this morning; I will send a guard company with them, but we ourselves are not needed so soon. Our horses are swifter than the armies, anyhow. I do not think we will need set out till late this afternoon, and even that will afford us the leisure of a gentle pace. But all this brings me to a question."

"What?" said Serge.

"Why? Why do you still follow me? You have done me much service already; far more than I had begged of you. First you forsook your own land, and followed me on an ill-advised quest..."

Serge shrugged it aside, thinking to himself 'how could it have been otherwise?'

"...you have placed yourself in the way of mortal peril," Crono continued, "and all for the sake of a kingdom and king you had scant heard of. And now you continue to do so? Serge, your duties are now complete, and you have done deeds beyond the calling of honour. Leave now, and you will still be held in high esteem. I assure you this. Moreover, you have things you should not abandon now. What of your wife? Would you leave her to waste away in fearful waiting in this fortress while you ride with your battle-comrades?"

Serge leaned back against the battlements.

"Strange: that's nearly what she told me earlier today. She naturally told me not to go, and that you wouldn't fault me. She thinks we should leave for El-Nido as soon as possible."

"Then do so, Serge," Crono said, his face turning stern. "Do not continue to torture yourself so for a foreign kingdom. We are already indebted to you far more than we could repay."

"Well," Serge replied. "I think the debt's a lot smaller than you make it out to be; I didn't die, and a few worries and scars aren't new to me. Remember that I've fought worse battles before. And this all was my own choice. I'd leave it were over, but this isn't a new war: it's the end of the same one. I've got to stay till it's done; I can't leave now."

"Yes, you can," Crono returned. "I would not fault you."

"It wouldn't sit well with me. Your people would wonder, too, and no matter what you say, they'd think me a coward," said Serge. "Janus would curse me for a weakling if I left, also."

"But would you expect any less of him? He would name you a coward to leave, and a fool to stay. He seeks to find folly or cowardice in everything. It is not wise, and most tiring, to listen to him overmuch. But heed my words, my friend. Keep yourself from this; depart, and find your home elsewhere."

"Home," Serge said. "Yes, I want to go home. But, no, I can't."

"Serge," Crono sighed. "If you do not do so willingly then I should order as one of my knights to forsake this land."

Serge shook his head.

"You wouldn't, and I'm coming with you all. For the same reason that I came with you before: my hand and the Masamune can't just sit at the side and do nothing. Could I just sit back and let everyone else bleed and die? If I fight, that means that a few less of your people will die. You know that, and that's why I have to."

"That," Crono said, "is your hero's tongue speaking. What, now, of last winter, when you desired naught more than to return home?"

Serge shook his head once more, and paced a few steps along the battlement. He glanced down into the courtyard far below.

"But like you told me then, I wanted to go home to be with Leena. And she's with me now; I don't want for anything. And I can see what I should be doing rather than what I want," he looked up and met Crono's eyes. "I will be coming with you no matter what anyone else may say, for friendship if for nothing else."

Crono shook his head with a sigh.

"Very well. I did not think that I would be able to dissuade you."

"Leena put you up to this, didn't she?" Serge asked as Crono turned to leave.

Crono nodded.

"Certainly. She is most ill-disposed, I will have you know. As she told me, I was her last hope for having you see reason."

Serge smiled.

"But I do see reason. And I know she's not happy. But there are some things have to be done. Trust me, I'm no happier than she is. But really, do any of your people feel happy about leaving their families to fight?"

Crono nodded.

"A true point, if you were a son of Guardia," but he paused, and said: "Yet, you have bled with us upon the fields, so perhaps you are a blood-brother of my people then, at the least. And so I must now go and tell your wife I have failed in my mission."

Serge shook his head.

"I'll do that myself. I have to say my goodbyes yet. It may be the last time I see her."

"Serge," Crono said, "I fear for you, and what I have done to you. You said that as if nothing were the most common of things. Have I turned you into a warrior that you should speak thus? Remember who you truly are, and that, as you said to me on the day in which we rescued Marle, that you value peace over all. Never become familiar with death, or else it will become altogether too familiar with you."

Crono left him, and Serge looked grimly out over the plain. Perhaps his friend was right. Yet after all these battles, what was the coming one but a mere one more? Certainly he feared it, but not beyond reason, and it did not seem strange. He was keenly aware of his own mortality now as a fickle thing that ever hung in a balance mastered by fate. Now, would that be accounted for good or ill? Both, he thought with a silent laugh in his mind. If naught else he had grown, and that is near always for the better in the end. And through it all he still had Leena's love, and that was what was most dear to him. And for that reason he could elect to march to war without concern; he knew that, live or die, she would still love him always. And so now, at least, he would march free of doubt.

----

Things went well for the remainder of that day. Serge made his peace with his wife, at least so far as to make their parting as sweet as any may ever be when a loved one marches to war. Crono said farewell to all those that he knew in the fortress, and tried at reconciling himself with his son somewhat. In the end all that he received was a short formal bow, and best wishes. Sigurd was adamant to show his ill-favour at being kept from the war, and did not show more than royal courtesy to his father. It grieved Crono, but he judged that in this matter he knew better than his son, and took comfort in the knowing that Sigurd would surely come to see this in time.

So leaving the castle in the care of this ill-tempered steward they left. The company they rode with was small by any measure. But what guard did they need? There was no danger of assault in these regions of Guardia, and it would have been a foolish company, indeed, to try at challenging these four, who were worth a score of masterful knights apiece. And so as they went they talked brightly in some effort to dispel the shadows of war that were deepening upon them (all, that is, save for Janus, who seemed to revel in the grim foreboding of battle.) In this the weather, too, was kind to them, giving them joyful days of bright sun under which to travel.

On the third day, the twenty-third of April, they found had reached the verge of the Annoth-Tin plains that lay at the head of the Zenan bridge. Before them lay the assembled hosts of Guardia, having arrived the day before, and already the near edge of the field was strewn with the tents and palisade walls of a war-camp. Crono took some hours taking council with his chief captains, and when he at last thought all to be prepared the twilight was hard upon them. And so they made their own camp of captains some way from the main host, in an open glen that lay amidst a nearby stand of trees.

Though the next day would surely be one of much bloodshed, the night came pleasantly. No alarms of scouts or attack woke them, and sleep found them swiftly.

----

"Serge?" A voice behind him called. It seemed strange, for it was familiar, in some fashion. Yet its tone seemed nearly empty and hollow, as though speaking to him from afar, or through a cavernous expanse. He turned slowly, his mind swooning. He could mark none of his surroundings, and of all things about him only this strange and ghostly voice was clear as it called his name for a second time. And he feared what would meet his eyes when he turned.

At first he saw nothing. Then, slowly, coming from the fog enwound his eyes, a figure appeared. It seemed to be a man, no more than his stature. At this sight, Serge felt both fear and sadness. The ashen figure seemed as if born of the very mists, all in cloudy array and countenance. Serge had no doubt that, had he reached out to touch this thing, his hand would have passed through it as through smoke. But Serge did not move, and simply stood his place, fearing to approach, and unwilling to run. Before him the figure's eyes, as lifelessly grey as the colour of his flesh, seemed weary and mournful.

It was without question a wraith, a shade of death, come to visit him. Yet even so he could see well what it had been in life: a man of the ocean, for the sea worn lines upon his face not even his ghostly colour could hide. But the face that smiled mournfully at him now was not unfamiliar, and the eyes, though devoid of life-fire, seemed not unlike his own.

"You do remember me, Serge, do you not?" it questioned, hope clear in its hollow voice.

Serge nodded at this apparition.

"I wouldn't forget my own father. If that's who you are, because you are dead."

With a voice of deep sadness, the shade replied:

"Indeed, I am dead. Long have been the years since I walked the earth in life."

Serge looked about him.

"And this? Where am I? Is this Hades? Or is it a dream?"

The figure nodded slowly.

"A dream most surely. But take heart, child, that I am no illusion of your mind."

"Aren't you? If this is a dream, than aren't also? Has Zurvan opened its doors that the dead are coming to talk with the living?"

"Seldom is it that the departed may return even in thought amongst the living, for returning they bring with them knowledge of things that the living are not to know. But it has been ordained that I may come to you, if only in your sleep, for a time. And even so the time granted is but brief. Doubt me not."

And Serge did not. Whether convinced by the ever sorrowful eyes, or haunting voice, Serge did not think false of the words now spoken to him. He said:

"It's wonderful to see you, even in such a ghostly way, father. But why have you come to me now?"

"Right you are in asking this, Serge. We have little time in which to speak, and it is for no errand of fatherly meeting that I come hither, out of realms unknown to the living. For in death I perceive many things unknown to the living, and I know of what is to come. Listen! it is in warning that I have come to you."

The dark tone of the words, mingled with the ashen countenance of the speaker, made Serge's heart chill.

"Of what? Are you saying that we'll lost the battle tomorrow?"

"I cannot say. So much is not permitted. All I may do is admonish you to keep your guard, and be wary of your foes. Greater power than you know walks with their ranks."

"How can I guard myself against the unknown? Please, say more!"

The figure sadly shook its head.

"I cannot; I have sworn silence on my soul. But trust to your hope. Whatever lies in your future, ready yourself for much bitterness. It will not be over swiftly. But in these days will your future be born. Remember that you are not a simple boy any longer, such as I tried to save once. You are the master of the Masamune."

To this, Serge could not answer. It seemed this wraith of his father had come in dire warning. Yet, as it was oath-bound against speaking of what was to come, it but filled Serge with a fearful wonder of the unknown future. Then, to his father's side, came another voice, one he had never heard before.

"Your father speaks truly in this. Many hands have held this weapon called Masamune, and used it for both good and ill."

He turned to the new speaker. It was an old man, aged with years, and as shadowed as the form of his father. The cloudy raiment he bore was of a strange design, and seemed as if from an age long since gone.

"I am Melchior of Zeal, and by my hand was the Masamune forged," the figure said, "yet by others was it born into its true self. Its masters have been countless, and many have been the deeds of valour done through it. Yet in your hands, and in the hands of those you love, shall it come into the title that was given to it of old. Soon it shall be truly known by the name that has been destined for it from the first. It shall be forever Diom Tinao, the Death of the Shadows."

To Melchior's side Serge's father came, and nodded in affirmation of the words.

"The day draws near to fulfilment, Serge. Yet it shall not be with joy that these high things come to pass. Evil are the coming hours, and fraught with much sadness ere the glory is achieved. Therefore take care, my son, and may nothing vanquish your spirit. I will beg God's mercy and comfort to be upon you, my mighty son."

And with that as a parting word, he left. As if a wind from an unseen world were blowing them away, the two shades faded to fleeting mist, and from mist into nothingness.

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)


	20. The Battle of AnnothTin

CHAPTER XIX

**THE BATTLE OF ANNOTH-TIN

* * *

**

Serge awoke, suddenly startled from his sleep. His mind had been troubled in dreams, and would not allow him to remain at rest. To his surprise he saw the others had already risen, though as of yet only a pale easterly light proclaimed the coming morning.

"Serge?" Schala asked as he rose. "You too couldn't sleep? This does not bode well."

"Strange dreams, Schala. But I can barely remember it now. It probably doesn't mean much."

"No, it means a great deal," she replied anxiously. "In fitful dreams you have been not alone. We, too, each of us, have had our sleep troubled with some dark warning. Crono?"

Crono looked about, and Serge saw his face as pale, though perhaps this was merely the moonlight that streamed through the trees. But his face was unsettled, and a disquiet rested in his eyes.

"I, as Serge, can but remember a part of what I have dreamt. I found myself alone, in a place devoid not only of sound but substance as well. A dark forest, into whose depths my eyes could not see. As I looked about in fear, I was startled by a sudden voice at my side. Turning, I found, to my amazement, the form of the one whom I have longed for more than any other. How, I so not know, but it was my beloved Marle. Though pale and ghostly, as though a shade of death escaped from Hades, she came to me. What words passed between us, I cannot now remember. But my heart forebodes me this: she came not in wifely greeting, but rather only as a messenger, to warn me of some coming evil. Yet our time was brief, and even as I reached out to her and sought to embrace her, she faded into darkness..."

He shook his head as Schala spoke:

"So, too, was my dream, Crono. But to me it was a wraith of Lucca. As you I cannot recall what words passed, only that they were of some dark warning. Serge, have you dreamt likewise?"

He nodded.

"Janus, you have had such a dream as well?" she asked of her brother.

"An apparition of our mother. More shall I not say, for it shall avail us no more than what has already been said."

Schala shook her head darkly, a countenance of grave disquiet upon her.

"I shall take counsel of this in my heart, and attempt to decipher what I can of it."

"What can this mean?" Crono asked.

For long, no one spoke. At last it was Janus who broke the stillness.

"That we should guard ourselves of our coming fate, as we have ever done. That we should not meet tomorrow blindly, but step into it with both eyes sharp, and a watchful glance to our back. More we cannot do. And it is only a fool who accounts too much to dreams."

"Not to be taken as a guide of deeds, most certainly," Schala answered him. "But that four should dream so similarly? No, though the dreams be forgotten, let their meaning hold true. As Janus has said: we should at the least be ever watchful now."

----

It was dawn now, and Serge sat upon his horse looking fixedly across the plain to the south. At his side Schala sat upon her own steed, shifting uneasily as if a disquiet rested upon her mind.

Behind them the gathered armies of Guardia stood already prepared and silent, as Crono had drawn up the battle-lines in the dim hours of morning. Yet it was a peculiar quiet; some solemness had taken all the men, and the ranks were noiseless.

These were the best that could be rallied so swiftly, each one hardy and good with a sword or spear. Greater in number than last autumn, but even had it not been so Crono would have accounted this army of greater might than his last.

In the distance the rising dust proclaimed the van of the enemy host, likely the cavalry. Crono had heard at daybreak that the fortress that guarded the centre of the bridge had fallen, and those who had been able had fled to join Crono's army. Porre was swift in the following.

"Serge, take care. I sense something greatly amiss here," Schala said, glancing nervously from enemies to friends.

Serge looked uneasily at her. Evil feelings were always an ill way to begin a battle. And now to his mind returned anew their fretful dreams, and the warnings of evil that had come to them. Serge frowned, but nodded, affirming the warning. He felt nothing but a faint premonition, a thing not uncommon before battle. Yet Schala was a powerful enchantress, and such things touched her mind more profoundly; seldom were her feelings without cause.

"What's the matter?" he asked as she drew her horse's reins ever firmer in her grip. Perhaps now she would have some answer to the riddle that their dreams had begun. But she only frowned, shaking her head, with uncertainty knit into her brows.

"A dark shadow. I fear," she began, then paused and was silent for a moment, a seeming knowledge crossing her. But it appeared that whatever thought came to her served only to perplex her further.

She looked behind to where the army stood at the call of their captains.

"I don't know what I fear. My mind is troubled once more by the warnings that we have received. Take care for yourself"

As if in reply, Janus rode to their side, like a dark wind upon his mighty steed, and reined his horse in beside Serge.

"Schala!" he called urgently past Serge at his sister, his dark voice lending a certain chill substance to his words. "A dark day begins, beyond the evil of war! The black wind chills my spirit. Fate is strong this day; for some, at least, this battle will hold a deep darkness!"

Schala started, very much disturbed. When Janus felt so, things were ever on the verge of ruin. She wondered with a rising fear at what this day held that the very whisperings of prophecy should be so darkened.

"Janus! Serge! We must retreat," she said on a sudden, her eyes caught with a wide fear. "Tell Crono that he must call for flight at once!"

"No!" Janus cried, overcoming his sister's words. "No matter what the evil, if we retreat now then we will surely die. I will go warn Crono as to this, but do not falter, and do not waver. Forward, to victory or death!"

And with a flourish of his hand his horse veered away in a gallop to where Crono sat at the chief vanguard.

"No!Aith henamet il es tina!" Schala cried after him, but her voice faltered in the wind. Either he did not hear, or did not care to reply, and Schala scowled after him.

"Curse that stubborn-valiance of his! Serge, my heart has not been so darkened since," she glanced about, as if fearing her words to be an ill omen, "since the Tesseract. A dark foreboding rests heavily upon my heart."

"The Tesseract?!" Serge stammered as his heart quickened its pace. "Why would you feel like that now?"

But, as he said the words, a cold lance of fear entered his heart. He, too, felt it, or something akin to it. The evil nothingness, and the dark despair, that had haunted that place.

"Why?" he said again, his words faltering from his lips.

Schala swept out her sword, one with a great blade which she kept sheathed beside her steed, and shook her head at Serge.

"Perhaps this is what we were warned of. I have no knowledge of what fate awaits us this day, but I assure you it is without question dark," she said grimly, raising her eyes to the enemy ranks. "And now I fear we are too late in seeing the doom come upon us!"

The vanguard of the cavalry of Porre were now nearly upon them, and Serge saw that it was moot to question her further. He plainly saw the wild fear in her eyes: the terror of one who has been caught unawares when it is their way to know all things before they happen. And now she had no more knowledge than feeling could bring, such as he himself possessed.

Serge stole a glance to the eastern-most flank of the Guardian armies. Janus was at Crono's side once again. A word passed unheard between them, and then Crono swept out his sword, raising it high.

"Guardia lives forever! Iustitia nostri signum est!" echoed from across the plain, and that was the signal for the advance.

Serge raised the Masamune high, catching the glimmer of the sun upon the edges of its gold-touched blade. Schala likewise swept her sword skywards, and the two urged their horses forward in sudden speed. At their sides thundered the cavalry and mounted men of Guardia, such as there were, and in their trail came the footmen. Swords swept free from scabbards, axes were unslung, and spear hafts gripped firm.

"Luck, Serge!" Schala called, brandishing her sword about in his way once, even as a fleeting smile touched her lips.

And with those last words the ranks of horses met, heralded with the clash of weapons. The thunderous roar of musket fire met Serge's ears as the enemy dragoons opened fire, felling some from both sides in their volley. Some ill judgement, no doubt, Serge thought grimly as a Porre soldier before him, the very one that he had marked as his opponent, faltered from his horse in a death-swoon, even to a bullet from his own comrades.

And now the infantry came into the battle.

With a fleeting glance Serge saw Schala fall from her horse, dragged down by the footmen. But he knew well enough not fear for her safety: in a moment her silver blade flashed high, and fell down ringing upon an iron helm. It held, but Serge turned away and to his own struggle, knowing that whomever she chose to face would die, as surely as though Death itself had singled them out.

Serge rose up in his stirrups, knowing that cavalry were of little use now in this fray, and only made him prey for the enemy dragoons. As if to add meaning to this thought a bullet dealt him a stray stroke across the forearm, tearing a thin read streak across as it passed. He dismissed the pain and blood, and took thought once again on the battle. Glancing to his side he saw an enemy horseman bearing down upon him with great speed, brandishing a silver rapier. Serge leaped from the back of his horse, grasping at the soldier with a free hand. As Serge fell he caught hold of a belt, and perforce the man came down with him, following him to the earth. Serge rose the quicker, however, and so the man never rose, for he was struck through the heart by a fell thrust of Serge's shining dagger that he loosed from his side (and that he had kept even for such things.) Raising his eyes, now, the battle seemed far different to Serge than it had upon horseback, for he was no longer above his foes, but rather amongst them. A disadvantage to some (and cavalry were most often favoured), but the Masamune was not a weapon that suited a rider, and to him any battle on the ground was favourable to one upon horseback.

The edges of his twin blades danced in fire as he wheeled it above his head, bringing it down in apt time to stave off an enemy sword that sought his life. As swift as it ever was, the Masamune fought nearly with a spirit of its own.

And so did the third battle in those wars begin, and of all the most sung of. For in after years many a bard did tell of the valour of the King of Guardia, striking down foes as a reaper at harvest. Great captains he faced, and overthrew each in their turn. And of Janus, the last of the ancient sorcerer princes, who fought at his side, bringing forth all his knowledge of magic, and of his curved scythe to which men fell in scores. And even of Serge Masamune, accounted not the least among the heroes of that day.

But, alas, it is not in joy that those songs end, though they begin in hope. For though the armies of Porre suffered grievous harm, they were ever renewed in greater numbers than had been reckoned with. And so as morning gave way to midday, the armies of Guardia found themselves in dire peril.

For as the sun climbed to its zenith, Schala looked about, seeing in the distance a new host coming upon their already beleaguered company.

"Serge! Things are falling into ruin! We are stalled at every front, and we now cannot hold them for long. Some strange power gives unnatural zeal to these foes, and I begin to fear this is no mortal army, for some potent will drives them."

"What should we do, then?" Serge asked in uncertainty, seeing even her dismayed.

"Guard me, my friend. I will attempt something not done for many an age," she said, thrusting her sword quivering into the ground.

Serge nodded and, gathering what men he could call swiftly together, formed a stout shield-ring of defence around Schala.

The enemy pressed all the harder, thinking by this that they had nearly overcome their foemen. One of Serge's comrades fell to an arrow; another cried in agony as he was mortally wounded by a flying lance, so that he fell to the earth, giving up to it his lifeblood.

"Hold fast!" he commanded, seeing the others on the verge of wavering. "And shields up; don't let them have a clear shot, whatever you do!"

And then, behind him: "Schala, hurry! We're going to die one by one here."

Even as he finished this another man stumbled, being caught off guard by a shot. Before he could be helped an arrow pierced his heart, and he fell silent as the darkness closed in about his eyes.

Schala gave no sign of hearing the battle cries or of seeing the deaths. Bowing her head she knelt upon the ground. In the wind her hair waved with a gold sheen in the noon-sun.

"Schala!" Serge cried, unsure of what aid she was bringing in doing this. She looked up, startled.

"I only need moments! But guard me for those, and do not let the spell be broken, or else it may be the end of us all. Even so this may be only a vain hope: it has been many a long year since any man or woman did this, and the old oaths may no longer hold. Yet perhaps it is our only hope."

"What spell?" Serge asked, but once more her head was bowed in deep thought, and he did not trouble her to ask again.

Serge turned once more to the battle, unsure but resolved to carry out her command. Yet no more than half of those that had stood with him a minute before now remained alive, despite their valiant stand. He himself had been fortunate not to have been slain in the moment in which he had turned about.

"Don't waver," Serge called quickly as one of the men leaped forward with a quick sword flashing. His weapon drew blood, but he himself was overborne by two others. Had not Serge come suddenly forward, he would surely have died. Dragging the frightened man back, he fended off the assault with his skilful swordstrokes.

"Stay low," he said to the man he had just rescued. "And keep calm."

Behind him he heard a soft chant rise up in the wind, even above the clamour of battle. He turned sharply, and saw Schala singing the words of some old verse. And it was a spell of some power for, though the words meant nothing to him, they caused his heart to darken in dread even to hear them voiced.

_Entra teradeai rothet sai hael elth _

_Kalach entra es tinet adeai _

_Asant alakurao, Ros alakuros _

_Meronan es anuis elth anuisad alchad_

_Aith es gal es nesao Selevrotho!_

She ended on a sudden, and leaped upward with a fell glow behind her eyes; she turned about, peering this way and that. Then she smiled.

Bringing herself up to her full height, she raised a hand, and at her fingertips a faint crimson light shone. With a word of command it flew blazing like a wheel of fire into the midst of the soldiery of Porre; where landed it welled up and became a swirling whirlpool of crimson light: perhaps a doorway into some unknown, infernal, realm.

Then friends and foes alike gave way in fear as, from its coursing light, stepped a dragon. It was a monstrous beast, horned and clad in shimmering red armour that clattered with all the noise of a legion as it moved. Greater in bulk than a dozen elephants was its body, and its evil head towered on a serpentine neck far above the trees. The claws on its feet and hands were longer than spears, and more deadly than swords. Its nostrils burned as two furnaces, its gaping maw as the very jaws of hell. And death was in its gaze. Above the field the creature towered, and looked across the plain with eyes burning in power. It raised a mighty hand to crush a troop of Guardian soldiers that fled in terror.

"Diomalakur, halt!" Schala called out, her voice barely heard above screams of frenzied men.

But the dragon heard and, with a movement seemingly too swift for its great size, swung its head about to face the speaker.

Then, seeing Schala, it seemed a smile appeared on its lips...a cruel smile perhaps even more terrifying than its anger. Its voice broke out in a deep rumbling that seemed to be that of the mountains, and all shook in fear of the sound of its tongue.

"So, it is a magician of Zeal that hath summoned me. I had thought that they had all perished long ages ago, yet there can scarce be any doubt as to the blood in thy veins. Well now, what will thou have me accomplish, thou child of Zeal? Are these thy enemies that so cower before my face?"

Schala bowed before it slightly, not the least appearance of fear upon her fair face.

"I welcome your help Servant of Fire, for my allies are besieged by mighty foes. Your help is most needed lest we fail!"

The dragon broke out in a deep laugh, which was as the trembling of an earthquake.

"Then they shall feel my flame!"

And with these words he turned his massive bulk about to face the fleeing hosts of Porre. Not a few Guardian soldiers had to swiftly move, for the dragon stepped heedless of friend or foe. Its claws rent the ground beneath it as it stepped more violently than any farmer's plow, as with terrible speed it overtook its fleeing enemies.

In desperation the men of Porre turned to face this terror that had come so unforseen upon them. A hundred arrows were loosed, and the crack of countless rifles rent the air. Yet strong indeed is the armour of a dragon, and nothing short of magic or enchantments can pierce its shielded flesh. And so the arrows and bullets skipped harmlessly by, and the dragon was undaunted.

Diomalakur brought down a mighty claw, slaying a dozen soldiers in one terrible stroke. Those that lived broke rank and ran amok, seeing no way to stay this fearsome onslaught. The dragon merely laughed at their feeble tries at escape. With a breath came a torrent of flame, more searing than the fires of a forge; men perished like parched grass in the furnace.

From Schala's side Serge watched in mingled awe and horror as the dragon wreaked this terrible destruction. The despairing cries of those caught in its hell's fire met his ears, and he shuddered.

"Schala," he said, but no more, for he could put no words to his thoughts.

She bowed her head, and he saw her slightly pale.

"I know, Serge, I know it well...terrible, oh, monstrous, is the fury of Diomalakur when aroused. I would not have summoned him but at most dire need. Yet even now I doubt if I was not a fool in doing so. He is a beast of hell, and has no love but for death and destruction. Yet long ago he swore an unbreakable oath to fight along side the sons and daughters of Zeal, and so is an unshakable ally to this day."

"But..." Serge muttered. For it seemed too evil a thing to do, and touched his conscience nearly. What were they now: holy warriors and heroes, or dark sorcerers?

"Stop it, Schala!" he said finally, casting aside the Masamune and grasping her by the arm. "This is too much. Do we want to win just to tell our children that we became the exact thing we fought against?"

Schala shook her head with sadness.

"No, certainly not," she said with a whisper. "But for good or ill it is done now, and cannot be undone. The dragon fights for me, but will not stop at my bidding. I am sorry, most heartily so, and I pray for the souls of Porre. That is all that may be done now, I feel."

In the far distance Diomalakur struck down men to either side, heedless of every stroke that was dealt against him. Now and again his deep laugh would rumble down the battlefield, portending doom. And so, led by the fearful power of the dragon, the men of Guardia once more rallied, and fell in behind Diomalakur.

Serge, for his part, sighed. He felt heartsick, and betrayed by this deed of Schala's. He had thought her nobility to be without match. Yet now it was that even she, the one whom he would have thought to be the last to be corrupted, had fallen prey to darkness. Even as she had forewarned him, and as she had feared. Woe, indeed, betide her enemies.

And Schala, also, was not without remorse. She, too, watched the dragon's fury with mingled joy and horror. I was true that they now had victory in their grasp without question but, even so, it was a tainted thing.

"Serge, I have made a terrible mistake. This deed proclaims me accursed in the eyes of God. Some things should never be called upon, some powers not to be trifled with, even at last need. What darkness has taken hold of me that I should do such a thing?"

She shuddered as the dragon bore up a bloody claw, then brought it down upon some of the few remaining men. About the beast fires burned where men lay in ashes, and battle-carrion was strewn about, crushed by the footfalls of the creature.

"Diomalakur, cease!" she called out. It turned and levelled its gaze upon her, teeth dripping blood.

"I thank you for your aid!" Schala cried, hoping that perhaps it would, beyond reason halt; yet there was desperation clear in her voice. "Now you may return with gratitude!"

The monster paused, a dark question in his eyes.

"What is this? Shall I not slay all thy enemies? I have but dealt with one legion. Yet I see many others yet fight, and many more come from afar. Should I not deal with these likewise, and render them food for the carrion birds?"

Schala shook her head and bowed to a knee, in the fleeting hope of appeasing the pride of the beast.

"No, Diomalakur Asantroth, Lord of Fire, most mighty of Serpents and friend of Zeal. These we shall fight alone!"

The dragon reared up on its legs, towering up to a vast height.

"Until now I have fought but gnats! Is this why thou hast brought me hither, to slay insects, thou princess of Zeal? No worthy foes have I seen, and thus shall I not depart! And did not oaths lie between us twain, I should not bear so kind a will against thee; remember thy place, enchantress, and that I am not thy slave to command."

Schala was aghast, yet powerless to stay him through words. She shut her eyes and shook her head. Finally, with a muttered curse, she sat down upon the ground, looking at the earth rather than at the demon she had so foolishly summoned. Through its power there was no more danger here in this field; now they awaited the counterstrike that Porre was sure to make.

"Darkness gathers in my heart, my will is weakened, and I am driven to evil deeds. What does this portend?" she whispered unto herself, but Serge heard, and looked over at her.

She shook her head wearily, with a pained stare glancing at the blood-strewn field.

"Mark me: I will suffer judgement for this."

Finally, all the people of Guardia that remained living, but two thirds of the force, had gathered once more. An hour had passed since the sudden ending of the battle. It had been a grievous loss for both sides, with more than two thousand slain of Guardia alone, but doubtless it was Porre who had taken the worse; two full legions lay scattered or dead. Breaking from their companies of men Janus and Crono strode up, both glancing warily at the beast with mistrustful eyes.

"What have you done, Schala?" Crono demanded, with some anger entering his voice. Even Janus seemed uncertain, and his black eyes darted ceaselessly from the beast to Schala, and he said:

"Dark deeds, Schala, are done this day. Tina achos, kib saio."

"You need not tell me that, brother," she replied, in the voice of one who is caught in the midst of a misdeed.

"He's done what he needed," Serge said. "If he won't stop, then send him back, Schala."

"I cannot," she whispered. "He has come at my bidding and leaves at his pleasing. He will not depart until he has found a worthy challenge."

Serge looked dejectedly to where the great dragon sat, as a king of death among the wreck, seemingly proud of the grim kingdom he had won for himself, though his servants were no more than food for the carrion-birds.

"Yet perhaps this is best," Crono said, "for the beast spoke truly! More legions come to the aid of Porre, and their might is twice what we had reckoned with. Without this creature's aid, I am afraid that we may well be lost."

Schala agreed silently, but it did little to cure the sickness of her heart.

Crono raised his sword, calling all eyes to him.

"Rally about the dragon! We await Porre here."

They waited, the rest renewing their spent strength. As the third hour after midday drew to a close, the second host arrived.

"And now will this battle and war be decided," Crono said. "Beware of the dragon, and keep a sharp watch. This is our greatest battle!"

And, indeed, the foes were not few. Not anyone could count, but Serge guessed there were nearly eight thousand. They came over the hills from the south and east like ants, marching rank upon rank in unflawed order.

"We have but fought mercenaries till now," Janus said grimly upon seeing the army. "This, at last, is their Northern Guard, unless my wits fail me."

Crono nodded, seeing this as well. For these soldiers were very much unlike the others. Whereas the men they had fought before had been dressed in drab clothes of brown and grey, and had wielded any sort of weapon, these had the look of a true army, trained through many years for war and conquest. Their raiment was deep blue and, though they wore little armour, that which they did shone with dazzling light, as it mirrored the sun. And each wore at his side a great sabre. The outriders of this host were even more grand: blue-caped dragoons, they sat tall and proud on mighty steeds, and carried short-barrelled rifles.

All these marched over the rise, in order long rehearsed.

"Yes," Crono replied simply, "This will not be a day lightly to be won, even if victory is our fate."

He drew out his sword, and nodded somewhat to Janus.

"But if men may slay a demon such as Lavos, how much less should this seem."

Serge stepped over to Schala, and out of Crono's earshot. She sat crouched on the ground, awaiting the battle. But her face was not joyful, nor stern, nor even grim, as might be thought. She was pale, more so than Serge had ever seen her, as if a monstrous fear had beset her. And he saw that her sword quivered in her hand.

"Schala?" he asked, looking at her with rising concern. "What's the matter?"

She glanced up at him, saying:

"When this battle began, I told you I felt my heart darkened by some uncertain thing. Janus, too, felt the black wind, and it is an ill omen of death. It was this that weakened my resolve, and I could not forestall my dark sorcery. But more than this, I fear that things have not yet come to their worst."

She stood, trembling. Her blue eyes glanced anxiously between Guardia and the legions of Porre.

"It is not they that I fear. What it is, I cannot place; what is this mighty darkness that so eludes my thought?"

She closed her eyes, burying her head in her hands. The ground quaked with the sound of dragon steps. Battle was near.

The enemy armies had assembled, and a silver trumpet rang across the field.

And even as this happened, Schala reopened her eyes, and it seemed as if in that moment some vision passed before them. A tear coursed its way down her cheek as she drew out her sword.

"I think this to be our farewell, Serge, my friend," she said with a sadly weak smile. "Ah, I might now see wherein this dark riddle leads: I see myself fall this day; I see my brother overwhelmed. Is this, then, what has so darkened my mind? A foretaste of my death?"

Serge could not quite understand the words said to him. But she, it seemed, had recalled some form of courage. Her face flushed with colour again, and a grim peace appeared to descend on her, and it frightened Serge to see that this appeared to be the calm of one who knows death to be inescapable. She cast a second smile upon him.

Then the battle struck. Serge only just saw her nod to the enemies upon them, else he would have been caught fully unawares; he had been so mystified by what she had said.

With a great flashing of swords and shields the armies met. Blood was drawn upon both sides, and men fell with sundered flesh to steel-forged weapons. The hosts of Porre were greater in number, and both fairer and more deadly seeming. Yet even so the men of Guardia were hardy and valiant, and their King unmatched. And they had a dragon with them, a thing which was the bane of all the men of Porre. Old or young, fearless or cowardly, it meant little to Diomalakur. They were all a feast to his unquenchable bloodlust.

Things were turning out well for Guardia, indeed, when Serge and Schala looked up at the far hills. There a dust could be seen, the sign of a new riding swiftly approaching

Over the rise the cloud of dust rose higher, and in its shadow a small troop of riders mounted the ridge, all-arrayed in sable raiment and bearing a strange device upon their standard and shields: the symbol of a flame.

To see that accursed emblem appear so before his eyes cast such a fear upon Serge that he near forgot of the battle about him. Schala, too, started, a cold fear clutching her heart as the standard broke clear upon the ridge.

"No..." she whispered.

The frozen flame. The mark of the demon Lavos.

"I was mistaken," she said. "It was not my own doom I felt. Rather, the doom of the whole world."

"Schala," Serge questioned urgently. "How can this happen."

Grimly she spoke, not ceasing her stare upon the new-come enemy.

"Even as my heart has forewarned me. As dreams have warned us all. Lavos has returned. Beyond all reason, this has happened."

"But..." Serge stammered. "He's dead."

"No, I can feel it. It is indeed his power. It can be no other. On your guard now, lest all fail!"

"Dragon!" Serge heard Crono cry. So he, too, had seen the coming doom. "The sorcerers that bear the Flame on their standards! Destroy them!"

The dragon reared up, casting a gaze upon the hill. The horsemen had halted. Their dread banner, bearing the accursed symbol, billowed in the wind of the afternoon.

With a tremor of stricken earth the dragon dropped itself to the ground.

The sorcerers on the cliff neither wavered nor showed fear. They sat proud upon their black-armoured steeds. And as one they drew swords.

The dragon laughed at the challenge set to him.

He leaped forward, coming upon the rise in a torrent of flame, his great clawed hand rising to strike down the troop all at once. But it never fell, at the very least not where he meant it to. A piercing light, so radiant it burned Serge's eyes to see it, rose about the soldiers. And yet it seemed sickly, as if the light itself were but a mockery of true light. Dead, even it rotten by some supreme evil.

It shone darkly, gaining in radiance. The dragon halted, and its stroke faltered even as he brought it down. Then, in a terrible roar, it let out a cry of unmistakable despair. The light burned him, more greatly than his own fire scorched the ground. He fell backward, crashed to the earth as mightily as a falling mountain, and lay still. The great dragon, Diomalakur, the beast of immeasurable power unmatched in the world, was dead.

It was in that moment that Serge first saw how dire their fortunes had become. They had ridden to war hopefully, thinking to defend the great land of Guardia from an army of mortals. But now all such thoughts had been shattered.

Down the riders rode, with a great thunder and dust, the evil light fading from the air and alighting upon their drawn blades. It ran as an evil fire down their swords now, and brandishing their flaming brands aloft they tore into the gathered hosts, showing no fear, but rather wielding it as their servant.

Schala at Serge's side shook her head in dismay.

"There is nothing we can do against this power," she said. "We are lost."

She looked wildly about the field, hoping for some glimpse of Crono.

"Crono," she murmured, "sound the retreat. Now, before every hope is lost."

As if in reply to her wish a distant horn sounded, calling all the men of Guardia to flee.

But already it was too late. The cursed company of horseman had cut a deep swath into the armies of Guardia, felling brave men left and right with their evil swords. The blades they carried, lit with such unholy fire, cut through steel and flesh alike with light ease. Neither shield nor helm could stand to their blows. Where they struck helms were cloven and swords shattered. Only blades of surpassing worth could bear such a blow, and few of those there were indeed.

"We are lost," Schala said once more, burying her head in her hands. She looked up upon the battle again, a cry ready upon her lips.

"But fie upon us if we should now flee as cowards!" she cried, and it seemed as if a fey fire had alighted in her spirit. Her eyes burned in anger as she watched the enemy cut their way heedlessly to where they stood.

Wrathfully drawing out her sword she stepped forward, either undaunted or uncaring. Perhaps it was such a mood of despair that was on her that had torn from her heart all care or will for safety. Or maybe she sought simply to deal one last dire stroke ere all was overwhelmed. A great rider, a sorcerer-knight of the dark company, bore down on her, his face grim and battle frenzied. Upon his brow was branded the mark of the Flame. His sword shone with the fire of Lavos as he swung it, cutting down a warrior of Guardia who sought to foolishly stay him. No others dared approach him, save Schala alone. She stood, her eyes daring his coming.

He paused, brandishing his sword about. The lambent fire that danced upon the blade of his weapon seemed to wax all the more radiant, and a twisted smile of hatred crossed his lips.

"This is the hour in which the accursed heroes fall, and I have my vengeance!" he said with a distant voice, drawing himself up to his full height in his saddle. The voice shook the hearts of all who heard it, and all of friend and enemy took pause for a minute. Serge, too, felt the dire power that rang through the words.

It was not his own voice, Serge understood all too well. It was another that spoke through him, and that dominated his will. No man commanded such power in his speech. The power that Porre had sought to use had ensnared them. They were now but the deceived pawns of a mightier power yet.

The horseman leaped forward, the flaming sword sweeping in a great stroke. Schala leaped into the air, the blade passing a hair's breadth beneath her. As a rising bird she rose, high above the knight, her cape bearing her up as the wings of a great eagle. The knight cried out in rage, masterfully reigning his horse about for a second charge.

Schala fell to the ground, her sword driving deep into the earth. As through a rift had been rent into the deepest pits of the earth's heart, fire sprang up. It engulfed the sword in such searing flames that Serge could feel them hot upon his brow even where he stood, twenty paces away.

But the flames could not harm Schala, the mighty Enchantress of Zeal. Daughter of magicians, the last of a high lineage of great sorcerers, Schala enured the flames. She bent them to her will, and they became her servants. So even as the rider once again came upon her, she willed them forward and both the horse and rider became engulfed in a torrent of fire. With an anguished cry the knight leaped from the horse, his sword dropping from his hands.

Schala strode up to the knight and drove her dagger through his heart. He fell, dead at once and still aflame.

It was then that Serge realized that all the battle about had halted for that time. Men had ceased their fighting, entranced by this immortal duel. For an instant Porre stood beside Guardia, and no blood was drawn. Perhaps they even saw their own folly now, but even if it was so they had delved too deeply into powers beyond their mastering, and Guardia was still their foe.

The battle that had so strangely halted at once began again, and with a renewed fury, waxing all the more potent.

The men of Guardia were steadfast, but despite their valour, any chance of victory was doomed to hopelessness. The fell knights rode about where they would, drawing blood with every stroke, and scarcely taking injury in return. As masters of despair they seemed, and upon their will waited Death, that dread angel with the cruel and merciless sword. This day it rejoiced, for the men of Guardia fell in throngs; the armies were overborne and outmatched. And yet they were hemmed in by the outriders of the Porre army and, though a great many attempted to flee (and, certainly, none counted it as cowardice on this day of woe), they were only cut down as they sought freedom from battle. It seemed that only death could be the lot of all; this was not to be a battle, but a dire massacre from which none might live.

Now, for his part, Serge had remained, and had not tried at fleeing. His will would not allow him to abandon the struggle while others yet fought, and he thought to bring some hope to his besieged comrades, though he himself was quaking in battle fear. Yet at least he had one hope: he was one of the few that the riders would not approach, but rather fled from.

In the near distance, some hundred paces away, Schala was still fighting with a bold spirit, though overwhelmed with many foes. They fell two at a time before her blades, and her spell-wrought fire swept about her, setting to flame all who escaped her knife or sword edge.

And yet the enemy were many, and not unskilled in the ways of war. Time and again some weapon would find its way past her guard and strike her a grievous blow so that she faltered and was nearly overcome. But each time she rallied her might again before the storm could overtake her, and fought with even greater vehemence than before. It was a marvel to Serge, as he saw it between the glances from his own battles, but a terror to her foes, for no warrior, not though he was the most valiant of men, could have borne such injury and lived. She bled till her gold hemmed armour streamed red, and the sheen of the metal was all but hidden from the sun. Yet still she fought, an unquenchable valour of hopelessness kindled in her ancient heart. For it had always been a virtue of the children of Zeal that they should endure hurts of body more hardily than any other mortals. A last echo of a forgotten age, she seemed to scorn and deny death even as it swept in near about her.

Through this all Serge fought desperately to come to her relief, perhaps so that they might flee together, but instead was pressed into retreat as ever more soldiers swept between them.

"Schala!" he called out, but without any hope of her hearing him.

Yet hear him she did. She looked toward him, and even through the distance that lay between them he could the keen despair that her eyes held, and it darkened his heart to dreadful fear to see it. Her glance was fey and hopeless.

"Schala!" he cried again. "Hold fast for a little while! I'm coming!"

He parried a sword blade that came for his head, and leaped under the point of a lance that struck for his side. He put no more faith in the armour that he wore, and even his beloved Masamune that he held so lightly was beginning to weary his arms. An unlucky stroke glanced off the side of his helm, and he fell to the ground as his mind, for a moment, forgot reason. But he recovered his wits even as the warrior raised high his blade to strike the deathblow, and leaping nimbly upward drove his own sword fully through the man's chest. Serge shook his head distressfully as the man's eyes clouded in death. He could see that his own will was waning, and that he was beginning to tire. He had been fortunate, but maybe the next time he would not be. His helm was now ruined, and so encumbered his head that he tore it off as he leaped once more amidst the fray that swept about him.

And it was a grim skirmish, at that; of all his company, only a few of the men were still with him. The others lay dead at his feet. All were now hard pressed.

And where was Janus? For a moment the battle grew thinner, and he saw the sorcerer, as he very near to being alone. And all about the men of Guardia were running in retreat, and being slaughtered in doing so. It was an endless rout, and he despaired at last of any hope for victory.

So it was that now only a few scattered groups remained fighting valiantly against their foes. The greatest was gathered about him. In the far distance a second troop yet held, the company of the Silvern Eye, and these were the hardiest of all the men of Guardia, led by the fair-haired captain Akaion, a very valiant lord. Another was a guard about Janus, and as they flung themselves to death about him, it appeared that he was well near to being alone. From every stroke that he deal there flew red blood, though more often than not this was his own, for he was injured greatly in spite of both his armour and power. And there was Schala. She fought near to her brother now, as the shifting tides of battle swept them together, and seeing them it could be seen that they were kindred; both were more wounded than any mortal should have survived, and both fought with the same matchless fury.

They took note of each other, Serge saw, and some hasty words seemed to pass between them, but he could not mark them above the frenzied battle cries.

"Janus, Schala! Hold fast! I'm coming!" he cried above the noisesome clash of weapons and armour. But his reason knew he could not reach them. He would perish in the attempt, without doubt. Too many lay between them, and he was nearly dead from weariness as it was. Schala fell suddenly and was lost amidst the soldiers. Serge's heart nearly halted, and he saw Janus, too, look with a dismayed glance to the place where she had fallen, a wild fear in his eyes.

But with a storm of fire that struck down all those about her, and leaped twenty feet into the sky, she rose again, and Serge lifted the Masamune above his head so that she might see him, and knew that he yet lived and would come to her, if he might. For now he would make his final despair counselled stand along side his friends, and mayhap they would all die within sight of each other. His arms shook in fear, yet his heart did not falter then. But even so it wept, certainly not for himself, for he was beyond caring for his own life, but rather for Leena, his dear one. His death, he knew, would strike her heart dearly.

Yet even as he prepared to make that final desperate stand, and the soldiers of Porre swelled up around the hill, Schala looked to him one last time, and there was a weary resign therein.

She shook her head sadly. Her sword dropped point to the earth, and abandoned its struggle, as she knelt down in the midst of the affray. Her foes swarmed about her, and did not show any mercy: a sword pierced her through the heart and, as she fell to the ground without a cry, a second struck off her head. And then all sight of her was lost amidst the running of men.

Serge said no words, and neither did he feel any grief, for the horror did not allow him to see the truth of what had now come to pass, it was so terrible. And then it came to him as that fleeting moment passed.

"Schala!" he called in his loudest cry, but his words faltered as grief overcame him, and she did not answer.

She would not rise again. Truly his dearest friend had now met her death. Cursed day! All things were now hopeless!

And now, too, was Janus beset and alone. Though his potent magic still kept his foes at bay, it could not hold forever. It would fail shortly, and the darkness would take him as well; two of the mightiest would then together take the shadowed rode cross Styx. How could the Judge let it be so? A blade point found its mark far too near, and drew a line of crimson cross his face. From all about him swept a storm of terror as he struck in vengeful return. And then he turned to face Serge and cried aloud, admonishing him to run:

"Serge, flee! Abandon this futility, else death shall take us all!"

And Serge obeyed. Schala was dead and soon, too, would be her brother. And he himself had no hope, neither in aiding them nor in the battle. It was a defeat, more bitter than any he had ever felt or known. He turned and ran, as coursing tears of sorrow welled in his eyes. Around him some few remaining comrades rallied, and together they cut their way from amidst the press of soldiers that sought to sweep them away.

His head swooned as in a fever, such was the turmoil of defeat that beset him. But calling to himself all his powers he fought as he had never before, knowing that if he should fail now the evil that had been so victorious this day would take all of Guardia, and come shortly to Leena. In that hour it was only this fear and anger that kept him from full despair, and gave his arms the renewed strength to prevail. He lived, though from that woeful day few, indeed, of Guardia survived.

(Last Edited September 21, 2004)


	21. The Bitter Night Begins

CHAPTER XX

**THE BITTER NIGHT BEGINS

* * *

**

Serge stumbled wearily into the clearing that had before served as the gathering place for the captains. His eyes were in a swoon, and his head ached, a lingering sign of having poured out far too much of his blood on the field. His thoughts were still unsure, and he fought to piece what he could of his battle-shattered mind together. But he soon saw that in this he was hardly alone.

The outcome of the dreadful battle was far worse than he had thought it to be. Certainly the tale out upon the field had been grim, and even great men had fallen: last Serge had seen before leaving the plain Akaion, the dour lord of the Silvern Eye, had taken a javelin through his cheek, so that it severed his tongue and clouded his eyes in the deathly darkness. And even more dire was the loss of Janus and Schala, without doubt near to the greatest warriors to live on earth since the fall of Zeal. But only here, in the aftermath, was the full grief of it made clear, for the woe of the field was exceeded tenfold: from the ruin of the army only a small and bedraggled band of warriors remained alive. Of those that still stood, and had even some scant command of their reason, many were bloodied and injured with grievous wounds, oft mortal. And among these men Crono stood, blood spattering his gear from a dozen scarcely healed wounds. His greatsword was driven into the earth, painted crimson from hilt to point. As Serge fell to his side Crono wiped the red blood from his face, his eyes showing dismay, even such as Serge himself felt. But, while Crono saw this all with clear eyes, to Serge all was still ununderstandable as a dark dream, one that he might awaken from at any moment.

"Serge?! What joy! I had made ready to count you among the dead," Crono cried with barely gasped words.

Serge nodded sullenly in reply, and tenderly touched a fierce wound that ran deeply across his forearm, one of many that still bled.

"Serge? Schala and Janus are yet unaccounted for. Have you seen them?" Crono asked worriedly, the lives and well-being of his comrades ever first upon his mind, in the way of the true leader that he was.

Serge shook his head, stumbling in stunned weariness to the earth. What, now, had happened? Schala was gone, for he had seen her fall and she was surely dead. And Janus, that proud wizard; even he had been overborne at the last. Serge hung his head as grief-filled tears fell from his eyes, and his heart felt as though it were cast into an ever-deepening chasm. He had no wish to tell Crono of this, for it would drive the sorrow all the deeper. And yet, as needs be, he spoke.

"They," he began, but stumbled on his words, for the sorrow mastered him at that moment. He coughed, wiped his mouth with his hand, and found it bloodied. And his chest was rife with pain as well. So, that was it, then? He, too, was upon the verge of death, and he would need die a warrior from his battle-wounds in the end. For surely the blood bore testament to deep injury. He laughed a fay laugh to himself as he thought this, on a sudden not caring much for life, such as it was. His head lightened, and a dark mist arose before his eyes, as though it were a death-veil cast before them. And then it felt as though he were drifting into the embrace of sleep, for all the cares and reasons of life seemed to fade and lose meaning. And he thought: 'what greater joy is there than to now rest apart from life, which is such a weary burden.'

"Death, I await you..." he murmured, though to him the words held no meaning.

"Serge? Hold fast!" a voice cried, and this was Crono, who helped him to his faltering feet. Crono swept his hand across Serge's forehead, and at once some of the mist seemed to lift from before his eyes, and reason returned to him.

"Be wary, Serge. You have taken grievous injury, and are nearer death than you think. Are you better, now?" he asked as he removed his hand from Serge's head.

Serge nodded, though a frightening thought laid hold of him: he had nearly succumbed to the sweet lies of death and, had it not been for Crono, would have fallen dead even then. Never had he been so near it.

Crono steadied him, then gripped him by the shoulders, once again urgent.

"Schala, Janus? Did you see them? Do they live?"

Once again, though with a clearer, and so more sorrowful, mind, Serge shook his head.

"No, I don't think they made it..."

"That cannot be! Never; Janus and Schala must live!"

With a grief-born vexation Serge cried:

"They're dead, Crono! I saw Schala die with my own eyes; and Janus...he was surrounded and alone. There was no way he could have made it, not even for one so powerful as he was."

And at these words of grim assurance Crono fell to his knees, even as if he had been struck harshly by some unseen hand. From his eyes welled tears, and he tore at his hair in his anguish. First it had been his beloved wife, and now his dear companions. Had fate, then, turned against him, to spite him at every turn and road? He stood, sighing, and closed his eyes, to regain mastery of his wild feelings.

"Does the muse of tragedy sing for Guardia alone this hour? Curse this lot of mine..." he whispered to the wind that swept gently through the glade, "...can I not have peace? If this is the fate of heroes and kings, I would that I had never set foot on this path, for it is so hard to follow."

Serge looked at him in wonder. He himself felt sick in grief; how much more must Crono then feel this. Nearly ten thousand of his people had died in a single, evil, day.

"Crono?" he asked cautiously, unsure as to what mood was in mastery of his mind, whether it was only sorrow, or if there was grief-flamed wrath alongside.

Crono nodded solemnly in reply.

"I am," he said, and paused for a moment, then said: "I am alright, or as much so as any might be after this. But I weep for all of those who have died, and I pray to God that He somehow amend this day, for I have failed of my strength. Can this truly be what fate has conjured: that things should end in ruin with evil victorious?"

Serge shook his head, yet more unsure than Crono. He could not see what would, or yet even could, become of this day, when all had fallen from hope into utter defeat.

"Schala is dead?" Crono asked again, and slowly, gazing up at Serge. "And Janus with her?"

Serge nodded, although it seemed an odd thing to affirm it. His own death he had deemed to be expected in such a battle, but Schala's? It had never quite entered his mind or, if it had, it had been such a thing as is thought, but not truly understood. So to now have had such a thing come to pass, to have her perished, seemed as a thing unreal.

"Dead," he repeated, and the word bore a strange new meaning to him, it seemed. He had seen the cost of death before, but never had it struck him quite so near. And what, now, did it mean? That he would not ever again see her face, neither hear her voice nor look into her eyes. A parting had been so suddenly reached, and that would last until he, too, died, or the world ended, if even then.

"How can she be dead?" he asked Crono.

Crono shook his head, some trace of tears still on his face.

"How? Because she was only mortal, as are we all. Death is a most bitter parting, and this is the bitterness fate has measured out for us. Now remains to be seen if we can bear it."

"Our lives are so fragile," Serge said in a scarcely stammered reply. "Even her's, and she was stronger than most; stronger than mine, for sure. I never thought that there would be a day where I'd never see her again. It seems that she's been stolen away before her time. All her wisdom, strength. It's gone."

Crono nodded.

"Yes, as is the fate of all Man's strength and wisdom, in the end," he said sadly. "We must treasure her memory, for that is all that remains now of her noble life. Let us live, so that in this way at least her high death will not be for loss. We have work left for us to do."

Serge looked sharply at Crono. What was this that he spoke of?

"You are blinded by grief, friend," Crono replied to his lack of understanding. "You forget all but this day. Porre will not halt, and all will come to ruin through them."

"Leena!" Serge cried, at last seeing through which reason Crono thought. "The castle. Can it hold out?"

Crono turned away from him.

"Perhaps, but that would be a slight hope only. No, the only chance left is if we stand alongside it."

"We are only two..."

"Yes," Crono replied harshly, and in anger. "Only two! I would wish for a legion of angels at my side, would it be granted, but things are not so! And would you sit idle, allowing all to perish to these accursed foes?"

He took a score of deep breaths, calming his rash words. Serge, for his part, found his heart ever on the verge of falling into despair. Only his hero's will kept him in some wise from it.

"What do we have to do?" Serge asked darkly, leaning heavily on the Masamune.

"We must return to the castle. We must gain it ere Porre."

"Can we?" Serge asked with concern.

Crono nodded.

"I should think that, at least, a certainty. We are a few, and they are an army. We can do so if we make to leave at once." He smiled somewhat, saying: "You see? Even in these worst of times, some seed of hope ever remains."

As he spoke these words a horseman broke into the clearing. For a moment panic seized their hearts, thinking that Porre had found them. But this was no enemy scout. It was a man of Guardia. Or, rather, a child, at least by the reckoning of that land.

"Sigurd?" Crono gasped, as his son dismounted from the horse. The steed seemed near to death from being overridden. Sigurd, too, appeared taxed, scarce less than his mount, but there was more to his look than weariness. A wild despair was in his glance as he peered about the clearing where the last scattering of the army stood.

"My father!" he gasped. "What has happened?"

Crono closed his eyes with a sigh.

"We were defeated, nearly to the man. And Lavos rises again."

Sigurd faltered upon hearing this and then, returning himself to a somewhat more proud bearing, said:

"Lady Schala? Where is she? And Lord Janus. I do not see him either."

"Perished," Crono replied simply."And I do not wish to speak more on the matter."

"The angel of death has a fell sword, indeed. Death and ruin!" Sigurd cried despairingly, striking a tree with his hand so that the blood ran down his fingers.

"What has happened?" Crono asked with a chill shiver of dread.

Sigurd closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"Ai, to have come so far, only to see the utter ruin of our land," he paused, reopening his eyes. "More dire than you know."

----

The morning sun was breaking from behind the dawn's clouds with its usual magnificence. Its sparkling rays shone in warm greeting through the great windows of the throne room that flanked the high throne of the king. But whatever joy this brought most was lost to the steward who sat upon the gilded king-seat.

"Curse this..." Sigurd muttered unto himself. Even after two full days his ill-temper over being left in such a rearguard had scarcely abated. He understood the need for a steward well enough, yet still his greatest desire was to fight along side his father. Not to sit idle upon his throne, as one watching a child.

Scowling all the more, he sunk back on the seat, reaching thoughtlessly for a rather large mound of scrolls and papers that lay strewn upon a table at his side. Upon these were scrawled names, numbers, and things of like sort: a myriad of accounting from throughout the land. And there, too, were the reports of tax collectors from far villages. His eyes swept a smaller looking list, but it in no way made him feel better about his duty he now served. He shook his head.

"This is a useless tedium..." he said, with unmuted disdain.

He spoke slightly too loud, as well, for the high Chancellor, hearing his voice, came at once to his side. This was an aged man, bent with many years, whose grey-white beard and withered brows seemed more fit for a man lying upon his deathbed than for one who held the high office of Chancellor. And he seemed eager to show loyalty to his young prince in whatever way was needed of him.

"Do you wish for something, my Lord Steward?" the Chancellor asked kindly, addressing him in the proper manner of the court.

Sigurd sighed in reply, knowing that even a telling of his mind would be quite useless.

"No, Chancellor. Unless you care to remove me from this place I now sit in, there is little comfort you can bring me," he said, his words frustrated.

The Chancellor smiled with kindly eyes, perhaps understanding a space more of his young lord's mind than Sigurd had thought him to.

"That, as you well know, is not within my authority. Only you may rule in your father's stead, for upon you he has laid this burden. It is his royal decree," he said.

"However, these," he added at once, touching his fingers to the papers that lay beside Sigurd. "If you wish it I may see to these."

Sigurd nodded, not without eagerness.

"Many thanks. I have no wish to neglect my duties, but I must confess that my hands do not feel as light when not carrying a sword. I am a warrior, not a scribe or clerk, and certainly not a lord."

He moved about in his seat uncomfortably.

"And now, if none require aught of me, I shall go for a stroll."

The chancellor gave no objection to this.

"As you wish. I see that you are not all too eager to sit in your father's place."

A tide of bitterness swept Sigurd's heart for a moment. He had fought for so much, and now he seemed unable to but sit in a chair. Maybe least of things his father might ask of him, and it was this which he was most turned against.

"No, I am not. It was not how I was raised, Chancellor," Sigurd stated. "I live by swords and blood, and deeds of valour; I am afraid I shall never be wholly comfortable in a king's throne. How can one be? And maybe a sword does ever hang by a hair above my head."

Standing up hastily, as if in passing fear of that mythical sword, he strode down the steps to the court. Taking the scrolls and papers into his arms, the chancellor made haste to follow him.

"It is not without wisdom that the ancient loremasters spoke so," the chancellor said, matching his pace to that of Sigurd. A great feat, no doubt, for he was old and not one taken to walking swiftly.

"A king is charged with the lifeblood of his people. To fail is his death. And he is little more than what his people hold him to be. That has ever been the creed of the ruling house of Guardia. A leader, but not master. He commands only to their glory, dismissing his own honour in favour of the lives of his people. Your father knows this."

Sigurd shook his head.

"My father is ten-fold the king I shall ever be, even if I live to reach a grey age."

At the doors leading from the court he slowed his gait and turned his eyes upon the Chancellor.

"I shall never be ready for what this, my ill-placed birth, calls of me."

The Chancellor merely laughed.

"Few kings think themselves to be when they first take their sceptres, and I think if one should it would be a sign of a grave flaw, and overbearing pride. Such things ever need time to learn. Your father has great faith in you, his only child."

Sigurd stopped and sighed.

"But what do such words avail me now? I do not care for spoken praise; I revel in honour-deeds. I wish now more than all else to stand at his side with a drawn sword in my hand. That we may together battle for the greater glory of this land of Guardia, even as we did last Autumn in the battle for this fortress."

"Such a day will yet come, my prince and lord steward," the Chancellor said.

"But now! Let my youth have its impatience: he leaves me here, to keep his throne for him," he said, with a certain bitterness.

"To guard his throne," The Chancellor answered. "He fears assault upon the castle itself, should he fail."

"He does not wish both of us to die in the same day. If it were otherwise, he would have welcomed me along, and left care of this throne to another. He fears for my safety, as if I were yet a child."

"And yet you are but seventeen. You are not yet upon manhood," the Chancellor said in reproach.

Sigurd paused, considering these words for a moment.

"You are correct..." he said at last, casting wide the doors to the passage beyond, that which led to the battlements.

"...but at times youth and zeal may succeed where old age and wisdom fail to victor. My father has long ago shown this true."

And so saying he strode through the door, leaving the Chancellor behind.

Yet his mind was not eased. He looked south from the battlements and open windows of the towers many times, hoping for some messenger that might tell of the battle. If he could not partake in it, he wished he might at least know of its outcome.

But the heralds he hoped for came far sooner than he had expected. And neither were they those he had looked for.

On the fifth hour of the twenty-second of April, Sigurd started at the sound of warning bells. He at once feared that some evil had befallen on the fields, and that the enemy were now come to the very walls. But that could not be he thought: the battle would not be until the next morning, at the earliest.

Even so he made swiftly for the gates, and what he saw there cast a great shadow of doubt upon him. A great riding of horsemen, some hundred, was waiting in the plains, a bowshot from the castle walls.

"They are strange," the Captain of the Gates said as Sigurd came by his post. "See, they wear black armour, and do not carry the banners of Porre."

"Are they of Porre, even?" Sigurd asked, stealing a glance toward the plain. It was as he had been told. It was not a chimera, but a flame, that adorned the standards.

But the captain nodded.

"By their dress, I think they are. See the style of the robes? None but those of Porre wear them so. But these are not men of their armies, nor yet of the Imperial Guard, for they ever bear the sword-crossed gilded chimera. Perhaps these are some special band of troops, fighting as a separate legion."

Sigurd nodded.

"Likely. But how, then, did they come here? Does my father's watch sleep that one hundred riders slip past him?"

But the Captain had no answers, and so it fell to Sigurd to meet the parley that was upon the fields. Yet it felt strange to him. Here were one hundred, a strong force when met on a field. But even a thousand such could not take a fortress, not without potent magic. What did Porre mean to accomplish by this?

He rode out warily, in the company of a dozen other knights, keeping careful watch to the far trees, lest there be other soldiers or bowmen encamped there, waiting to strike. And all the while he pondered by what secret roads they had come to the castle. But he met no treacherous attack, and came unhindered to the riding. As he neared a horseman rode up: gaunt, sallow skinned, with cruel, dark, eyes, and girded with a jewelled sabre at his side. He sat haughtily upon his steed, gazing upon Sigurd with a disdainful smile on his lips. Sigurd returned the eyes with a chill stare. He would not submit anger to such an unspoken insult, or allow himself to be daunted by it.

"Ah yes, they send a party at last," the messenger said with laugh, leaning forward on his horse. "Do you bear with you the authority of the king of Guardia? For surely you are not he, unless waifs sit upon the throne of this brigand's land."

"I am the steward of the throne, his son, and Prince of Guardia. So are my titles, and in these matters take my words as the king's own, and my authority as if it were his."

Sigurd spoke with an assurance that gave himself no small amount of wonder. He felt uncertain, most surely, but at the very least his words spoke nothing but full certainty.

The messenger nodded.

"Are you, now? The son of that king, indeed? I did not know that there was such a one, born heir to Guardia. And so you come to surrender, in his name, as well? A fine steward, and son I might add, you prove to be: you would surrender your own father's throne? I daresay there has not been a more faithless prince in a thousand years."

A young knight at Sigurd's side clasped his hand to his sword in outrage over these words, but Sigurd stayed him with a wave of his hand. The words struck near his own heart as well, but checked his own flaming wrath, knowing that they were tauntingly spoken bait, naught more.

"Well, here I am," the man continued, "and I will take your surrender."

"I shall not surrender," Sigurd replied shortly. "You are foolish if you doubt the courage of this land, and if we are brigands, then we are fell brigands, more perilous than armour-clad knights. But enough of such words! I ask how you have come to our gates so secretly, unmarked and unseen by any of our watchers."

The messenger laughed quite harshly, and it was plain that he found such a question choice food for his disdainful temper.

"As you say, it is a secret! You have not discovered it? Why then should I reveal it to your blind eyes? And yet I will say this: even now our ships are anchored in the northern fjords, whence we lately came."

Sigurd glanced about at his knights, for a moment disconcerted.

"A clever move," he replied at last, not wishing to give this hateful man yet more reason to laugh. He was the son of the Great Hero, and should at least bear himself becoming of a prince. "I commend you on it."

"Ah," the messenger replied, "it was not of my doing. Ah, no! Rather, it is our great Emperor who has so guilefully brought us here. Very well, if we are through bandying words of strategy: you will not surrender, so why have you come?"

"I come at the requirement of honour, to meet your parley as my office demands of me," Sigurd said, taking great care to keep his face stern.

"Honour?" the messenger said, such a wicked trace of mocking in his voice that Sigurd very nearly reached for his own sword now, and only stopped a hand from the hilt.

"Yes," Sigurd said. "But mark well that we will not yield this fortress lightly."

The herald did not reply at once, but first shrugged his shoulders as if it were a light matter.

"Of course, of course. No less did we expect. But it matters little at any rate. May your precious honour die by your side this very hour, and may all you fools fall to a swift death!"

And so saying the messenger drew his sword with a swift hand. But Sigurd was no fool. He had marked the eyes of his opposite carefully and, even as the last words were spoken, he saw well enough the treachery written therein. As the herald brought his sword clear of the scabbard, Sigurd's own blade was already free and sweeping a fell swath through the air. Ere the messenger could parry, or make for his own play, Sigurd's blade struck true, and cleft the head off at the shoulders.

"To arms! Horseman and knights, take heed. This is no parley!" Sigurd called aloud.

Those remaining of the foe's parley group had already taken to flight, perhaps undone by the sudden fall of their captain, and the knights by Sigurd's side made ready to hunt them down.

"Halt!" Sigurd commanded his men. "We were lured hither with ill-intent. But let the enemy not have their way in this matter." He turned his steed about, "Let us return to the castle, and prepare for our siege; they cannot hope to overcome us then!"

Resheathing his bloodied sword without much care to clean the blood from it it he spurred his horse to return to the castle.

But even then he was made halt: a small company of riders had broken from the main host and coming in pursuit of Sigurd's company had quickly overtaken them. And so at needs he turned to face them.

They were not many, perhaps only a match for his own number. But it was a desperate battle, even so. Two fell to Sigurd's own sword as they passed him, one to his right, the other to the left. Some few of his own comrades were not so fortunate, however. Arrows swept past, some skipping across the armour they wore, but many others drove death wounds. And swords drew blood on both sides as they fought desperately to break free.

At last the final man of the enemy fell, toppling from his horse with a pierced heart. Sigurd looked about himself in dismay: the cost of the affray had been high: only one of his fellow knights remained, holding a blood darkened sword in one shaking hand, and a battered shield in the other.

"My lord, are you safe?" he asked, his voice a tremble.

Sigurd nodded his head, stilling his shaking swordhand and reigning his horse about.

"You fought valiantly; I will be certain to remember this," he said to the young knight.

"Tis but good fortune that you and I live, lord; these foes fought as demons, or men possessed!" the knight gasped.

And even then a great clap of thunder in the high airs shook across the plain, and Sigurd looked to the castle, a short ways yet from where they were, twixt fortress and wood. It seemed that a sudden and unforseen storm had broken loose in the skies above. There were dark clouds, billowing darkly with a touch of some unnatural foreboding, as though this were a menacing apparition of some fast approaching doom.

"What is this that has come upon us now?" the knight said, returning his sword to the scabbard hanging upon his horse's side.

Sigurd did not reply. For what words could give faithful description of the dread of the scene that now played out before their eyes? It seemed as if the very gates of hell had somehow burst, and its accursed flaming legions come forth in all their hateful fury. For, as Sigurd gazed upon the pitch clouds, a great evil befell. Heralded by darts of lightning, tongues of fire leaped from within the shadowy ceiling of cloud. But it was fire more akin to hail, only lit with a seemingly hellish flame. It rained down in terrible destruction, like to the very fires of Tartarus or some likewise infernal realm. Where it fell stone gave way, and masonry crumbled like sand. A tower flew into splintered stone as a hail of fire struck its side. It crumbled into dust, the fire still clinging ravenously to the tumbling rocks. The keep itself, so proud and mighty, was rendered rubble in a few fleeting moments, and flames rushed up from its fall in mockery. And last to fall, the main gate stood cloaked in a mantle of flame till it, too, succumbed to the fire.

To Sigurd the horror of this all, this grim moment, seemed to great to fully understand. It was as if the evil one himself were reaching his dreadful hand of death and ruin out upon the castle.

And then it was ended. The castle was destroyed, and none remained alive. That was a surely, for even if it had been their fate to escape the fall of stone and rubble, the fires would more certainly have claimed them. And of all those that had ridden out with him, but one young knight remained. Two, from five hundred that had been given guard of the castle.

Sigurd looked darkly upon this play, the red light of the fires shimmering in his tear-touched eyes. He had not before thought there to be such an evil living in the world. Indeed, he had heard but of one power so mighty that it could fell fortresses and kingdoms upon a whim. But did not all the tales speak of that power as being long ago vanquished? And by his very own father, no less?

He looked up to the sky where the enchanted stormclouds were now fading into the wind, perhaps the only joy to be found in all this horror. Yet still only faint rays of setting sunlight broke through these dark skies, like to veils of fine silk curtains.

"This thing... how can fate allow this to be?" he whispered at the wind. "What an accursed day, that this should happen before my very eyes. What grievous wounds you suffer, my beloved land. So many of your boldest perish at the hands of such infamous treachery and dishonourable sorcery."

He closed his eyes.

"And your many people, and those you hold as friends, who will now suffer alongside, my father's friend Serge not the least. I deem this shall be a hard loss for him, and I pray that he can bear it, for his wife is now slain by this same evil stroke. If my valour is so dampened in this loss, how much greater may he be stricken in heart."

The lone knight that remained still steadfast at his side peered at him questioningly.

"Is it wise, lord, to tarry in such an evil place? There is no place left for valour here; this ruin will be a gravestone of shame, marking where the dear of Guardia perished, but what of us? What path is now left to us?" the knight asked, weeping as he said it.

Sigurd looked sharply up, the words of his fellow stirring him out of his mind.

"Indeed, naught more can we do here," he said darkly, and brushed the tears from his own eyes. Then, on a sudden, he started.

"My father! Yet he marches to battle with the enemy. Nothing he knows of this power wielded by his foes. Haste! With warning we must ride south, else all hope is lost. For while he yet lives, that at least remains!"

So saying he reigned his horse about, taking one last fearful, and mournful, glace back to the castle. A crimson sheen now sat upon the horizon in grim marking of the evil of the day. It seemed that they two had been all but forgotten in amidst the dreadful sorcerous assault, and perhaps that at least would be found to turn for good.

"Let all your souls be commended into God's gracious keeping," he said as he crossed himself, in final prayer to those many who had fallen this treacherous day. Then, with no further words, and but a small nod to his companion, he urged his steed forward, swifter than he had ridden ever before. South, and hopefully to a brighter sunrise.

----

But Sigurd's hopes were dashed, as has been told. His companion's horse had faltered on the journey, and they had been overtaken by the advance riders; only Sigurd had broken free. So it was that he arrived alone and weary; and he found his coming a day late, with all hope indeed lost.

And, as Sigurd stood, ashen faced and telling his dreadful tale of the fall of Guardia Castle, Serge felt his heart nearly founder in anguish. The words of Sigurd echoed in his ears as if they had been magnified a thousand fold: the fiery hail, and destruction raining from the sky, with the castle crumbling into dust. And Leena perished amidst those flames.

Crono turned to face him, for he saw at once the despair that these tidings placed upon Serge's heart, far more profound than any he felt in that moment.

"Serge! Do not despair! If Leena..."

And now, at the speaking of her name, Serge felt his heart fail him. He had been attempting to discern if, in some manner, all of this might not be real. That it was but some illusion or nightmare contrived to overcome him. But as Crono spoke he knew such pitiful hopes were in vain. He shook his head, and bowed it in grief, falling once more to his knees as a twin tears fell from his eyes. Now at last he fully understood the mind of Crono on that fateful night last Autumn when Marle had died. Emptiness, despair, and a dark confusion of unquenchable loss filled him. He found it a wonder his heart did give way under such sorrow. Yet he could not comprehend or understand, or do little more than weep. A broken heart was his only companion at that moment, and that is always grievous company.

"Leena is..." Crono stammered once again, not knowing what words of comfort to speak to his friend if, indeed, speech held any at all even in its vastness.

"Yes, dead..." Serge whispered, but devoid of emotion or understanding. What did it matter? He was dead now as well. Ah, not quite. His body yet lived, though it seemed that his heart was stilled.

"Serge!" Crono cried, the word breaking into his mind as a sudden unforseen flash of lightning.

But only for a moment, and it faded even as swiftly. His surroundings faded to distance and shadows. Where was his blade? He crouched and his hand rested on the cold leather haft of the Masamune. He closed his grip tightly about it, knowing what he need do. And his weapon would not deny him this end.

He made firm one blade in the earth. From somewhere, far off, he heard a cry, as if he were beneath the sea, it seemed.

"Make it quick. Don't make me suffer this day," he whispered, and his words were the only sounds his ears perceived.

There was no spoken reply, but he knew that his wish would be granted without question. He threw himself forward.

He awaited sharp pain of the chill metal, the burning as it pierced his heart, and the darkness closing in about his eyes and mind as he died. But none of these met him. Rather, he was faintly aware of some movement, but his eyes were clouded, and he could not comprehend what it was he saw. Then, to his astonishment, he felt the cold dirt on his face.

He blinked, his eyes clearing from the stupor that had been laid upon them. Where was he?

He tasted the dirt on his lips, and saw the ground before his eyes. And he felt his whole body sweep with pain. He rolled, looking up to the sky past the towering trees; they were darkening greed before a deep azure sky. This was certainly neither death nor Hades.

He stumbled to his feet weakly. To his anger he saw Crono, and the Masamune was in his hand.

"And what, I ask you, did you do that for, Crono?" Serge cried. He wiped the tears and mud from his face.

"As if I could allow you to take your own life," Crono replied sternly. "A disgrace to both you and me."

He stumbled weakly to before Crono.

"But...I don't want to live anymore. This is my choice."

Crono put his hand on Serge's shoulder, in a gesture trying at reassurance.

"A choice, yes! But an evil one, and not yours to make, for your life is not yours to do with as you please. You feel now that life is empty, and do not care for your gift of life; it will never wholly leave you. Trust me, in this, at least, I know your heart all too well," he added bitterly.

Serge didn't care for any such words, true as they might be. He grasped a hand for the Masamune, but being injured far more greatly than Crono, it was effortlessly pulled from Serge's bloody grip.

'How dare he keep that weapon, ordained to be mine, from me?' Serge thought.

In rage he struck Crono in the face, who fell back a pace with a tear of blood from his lip. But he stepped forward again at once. Serge turned his back on him, saying with angry and half wept words:

"Don't talk to me! Today, in one day, even in one hour, I've lost everything that I've ever loved! I've lost my wife, my friends, and every bit of hope I ever had. My heart has been robbed empty, and your fine words won't change that! Get away from me, and if you stand in the way of my death again so help me I'll kill you, too!"

Crono grabbed Serge by his injured arm, sending a clear lance of pain through his limbs and body.

"No, you are not yourself! Remember, you swore an oath once. The vow to our company. To Schala, and Janus. And to me, as your friend!"

"Our company? We were fools, one and all. Dreams are dead today. This is the day of darkness and night. And, frankly, I don't care about any oath or promise, though it damn me. I regret ever laying eyes on you, or Janus, or Schala, or anything in this life. Curse you all, and curse me too, because my life is worthless."

"Why? Why Serge?" Crono cried desperately at these hopeless words. "What you have done will always be, though Lavos enshroud all the world in night. You shall always have been a hero, and your deeds will never be counted worthless. And, above all this, you will ever be my friend. Remember what I swore you: amicus usque ad aras. I shall ever hold that vow as binding, though Hades himself should threaten me with Tartarus. Hold Serge, and see: you have not lost all, for you still have my friendship. So fate may still..."

But Serge only laughed with the grim laugh of someone who seeks death, heedless of all else, be it even joy or wisdom or love of friendship.

"Fate? Isn't this bitter. Serge: merely the pawn of cruel fate. Well, now I go to where destiny calls me. Give me the Masamune, Crono, or I'll take it from you."

In defiance of this demand Crono cast the weapon far into the woods at his back. Serge glowered at him in wrath.

"Very well. If that's how you want it," Serge said, his voice angry voice faltering from the twin strokes of grief and injury.

He raised a hand to his heart, and Crono saw his eyes begin to shimmer like sunlit pearls.

"Serge, hold! How can you know with surety that this is where your fate leads? Others need you yet. I need you! And this world will need you, of that you can be assured! Your heart is broken, un-mendable, maybe, and your mind may be overthrown, but your sinews still have strength, and so it is your oathbound duty to God Himself to use, to death, all strength that is granted you. Janus and Schala, Lord I grieve for them, stand as righteous testaments to this, for they lost their lives in the glory of completing what was tasked of them! Kill yourself now, and you shall have but damnation to follow, and your end will be truly worthless. Now, who among those that loved you would wish you this? Would Leena wish you to be separate from her by the chasm twixt heaven and hell?"

Serge dropped his hand and paused for a moment in thought.

"I don't care. This is the end for me. Goodbye, and I hope fate's kinder to you than it's been to me."

And he raised his hand once more.

"Serge, forgive me for this," Crono said, leaping forward even at that moment.

And, before Serge could do aught in any way, Crono brought a fist swiftly up and struck him in the head, laying Serge unconscious.

----

When Serge at long last awoke, he found his wounds much better than they had been. Though his limbs still pained him with every movement, no blood ran from his injuries, which was a good sign. They had been carefully bandaged, and perhaps healed somewhat by magic.

Yet still his head weary and muddled he sat up. He could scarce remember how he had come to be where he was now. To his mind the memories of that day returned only slowly: Schala, dying. Janus, dying. And Leena, sharing a like fate. Surely, it was all a memory of death. His heart ached with it in mind. But this good at least there was: though his grief was not lessened in any way, he found himself beyond the keen shock that had so affected him. He found the overmastering desire to end his own life had left him.

"Crono?" he called out weakly, hoping that his friend was near and would hear him.

"Yes, I'm here," Crono said, coming to beside him."I'm here."

Serge made to undo his bandages.

"Leave them," Crono commanded. "The wounds have only now begun to heal. My magic has only kept them from turning mortal."

"How long have I slept?" Serge asked. His mind had no understanding of how long, and for all he knew, it could well have been weeks. Neither dreams nor thoughts had come to him.

"But a few hours," Crono replied. "The sun has only lately set on this most damned of days."

"What's left now?" Serge asked, his despondent voice the twin of his mind. "I've lost everything I've ever held dear. You, everything but your son. It would be better, I think, if we'd died with the others."

"Perhaps," Crono muttered sullenly. "It seems very much like an end, does it not?"

Now it seemed that the grief had come upon Crono as well. But the fire of his heart was that of a hero, and so it always looked to some hope.

"Yet still we live, Serge. Tomorrow shall tell us what will become of our future. And I swear to you I will not die before I find some way of bringing just vengeance upon these murderers. But for now, let us rest. It is something we all need greatly."

Serge lay down weeping, cleansing his emotions with tears. The day had been the darkest of all days. It had claimed his heart, and nearly taken body, mind, and soul. But now, in the early hours of night, he saw knew he had outlived it, though scarcely. He thanked God for such a friend as Crono, without whom he would surely be dead now, by his own hand, no less. He would not again be the same, but he would live, at least. He was still young and his spirit, though undone for a time, must rise once again. For now work remained to be done, lest all that was close and dear to him, and his two remaining companions, perish in the fires of Porre. Vengeance would be at hand soon enough, and in that thought he took some small comfort.

----

Awaking from a night of restless sleep, Serge stood wearily.

"Where to, Crono," he asked sullenly as he ate the meagre breakfast that was left to them. As it was, there were not many with which to share their rations. Of those that had been living the night before, few remained alive. All told only two dozen remained with them. Twenty four, out of seven thousand men.

Crono took thought to this with a near despairing light behind his eyes. Yet, noticeably, he rallied what strength he possessed, and put his thoughts to the coming days.

"I do not know," he answered at last, his voice broken. "North, east... which will avail us? Wherever we go, there shall be Porre, and with them Lavos."

"We could take flight for the far east, where their legions have not yet come," a soldier said, coming to the campfire.

"To what end?" Crono said despairingly. "To run and hide, and live out our few remaining days till we die of sorrow? And Lavos will come near at our heels, even in the farthest east. We cannot fight, but we shall not run."

"Then what shall we do? What course is left to us?" Sigurd questioned of his father.

Crono shook his head, casting a branch into the fire where it sparked quickly amidst the devouring flames.

"I disagree, father," Sigurd said, seeing that Crono was in no wise about to come to any choice, "You have said we cannot fight, but I do not believe so."

Rising, he looked about him at the few gathered.

"We are less than thirty, but did not you yourself vanquish the greatest power that ever lived upon this earth with but a part of this number? Does not your scabbard hold the selfsame sword that slew him?"

In sudden anger Crono rose, his fiery eyes meeting those of his son.

"I failed! That power was not destroyed, for now it has taken its vengeance upon me, and all whom I have loved! I was a fool to think that I, a mere man, could ever be victorious against it."

Sigurd shook his head.

"Then let us finish the task you began in your youth, father. Let us together bring the final end to this menace."

"That, Sigurd, is a most easy thing to say here, away from the glance of his withering eyes," Crono cried. "But where does this power come from? Do you think that Lavos himself marches with the hosts of Porre as a warlord? Never. He has merely lent them his power, and governs from afar."

"Then I shall find him, even if I have to descend into the darkest pits of hell itself!" Sigurd replied, with such adamant resolution that Crono's fury yielded, and he sat down once more before the fire.

"You, alone?" Crono asked, looking upward to his son, seeing now the iron strength that he had come to know of own self, melded with the fiery spirit of his departed wife. Seeing it so plainly consoled his heart, bringing him some joy for the first time in a day.

"If need be. But some at least I hope shall follow me, if you will not," Sigurd said, wandering off to the far gathering of men.

Sighing, Crono cast another log onto the dying fire.

"So Serge, what do you say?" he asked after a moment's silence.

"At what? At Sigurd?"

"Indeed," Crono replied, glancing over to where his son was rallying those he could to his cause, "He speaks truly, see. We may be undone, but are not finally defeated. Death has not yet taken us, and so we must still have some reason for life."

These words recalled to Serge a memory from the past. Rise again, it told him. Trust to a better day. Radius had spoken that to him, foresighted words from a wise man who had seen many and much slip from his life in his years. And yet he had endured, and lived to be a greater man than before.

Serge nodded, some faint hope returning at last to his heart.

"Maybe," he murmured.

"But," Crono continued, "my son, zealous though he may be, has not the strength lead this struggle. Sigurd!" Crono cried, wearily rising from beside the fire with the aid of his sword. For the first in a day, a smile was upon his lips. Sigurd turned to the call of his name.

"You are right," Crono said, striding up to him. "And you have reminded me of how I once was, when I was but your age. And how I must be again if we are to outlive these days. For surely we cannot run, and so we are compelled to fight, battle with all our might against our foes."

He wandered to amidst the soldiers, his now rekindled zeal stirring a fire in their hearts.

"Some might think this to be a seeming end, but I tell you it must only be so if we do not seek now to make it otherwise. Some faint hope remains, and hope has been an ally that has never failed me."

Serge, coming to the group, felt his heart, also, enlivened by the bold words that his friend spoke.

"Okay, if that is what you are going to do, then I'll help. But where should we go? We can't well march through the gates of Porre."

Crono looked over, and there was a peculiar smile on his lips.

"Ah, indeed we shall. But not alone. We must first go to Medina."

At the naming of Medina many of the soldiers were shaken from their silence.

"They don't bear us any love, my Lord!" one said. "More likely we shall be taken their prisoners, than aided."

But here Serge came forward, his strength at last returning to him with his voice.

"No, they don't. But they aren't evil, and we might just be able to get their help. They hate us, but they'd much rather fight Porre."

Crono nodded.

"What is your name?" he asked of the soldier.

"Heladah," the man replied. "Of Carbonek in the south."

"Well, it is in some measure true, Heladah," Crono said. "The Mystics as a race despise Man, I will not call that into question. But do not we Men hate the Mystics, naming them fay and evil beings, to be abhorred and feared? The cause for this enmity twixt us is ancient, and is the cause of our both races alike, for while they have done us grievous wrong at times, so, too, have they often suffered great injustices at our hands. Truly, the Mystics are by nature no more evil than are we."

"My brother went there but last year on a merchant's errand!" the soldier said in return. "It was a full month ere he was released from their prisons where he had been cast, on a charge as false as any!"

"I should not fault their ill-disposition too greatly," Crono replied, fixing a hard look upon the man, "and only hope that they may cast it aside long enough to aid us, for we are all born into this world, and so Lavos is a common enemy. And it oft chances that even the most bitter foes rally at need to drive out a greater evil that threatens both."

"Where to then...to the city of the Mystics?" the soldier questioned, his voice betraying his uncertainness in his captain's strange wisdom.

"Yes, first to the isle of Medina. We shall make for Tel-Harfai, and I will beseech them as king of Guardia to aid us. Perhaps with their legions upon the march of war, we can come upon their capital unawares, and tear from their hands the power they so foolishly use," Crono said, his eyes shifting in thought.

"But maybe not first to Harfai. There is another hope, one that in my folly I had forgotten until this hour. For upon that island is hidden a great secret, that is now forgotten to all but me. Not only is Medina home to the Mystics, but it was some years ago that another once called that isle home. Near to the western-most shores of the island lies the smithy of the master swordsmith Melchior."

And now Serge at last understood the faint hope that had so suddenly lightened his comrade's mood. His mind echoed with the words spoken to him by Schala on the night of their first meeting the last Autumn. Three Masters, three Time Eggs. Two whose fates were come to fulfilment, a third remaining. The Time Egg of Melchior.

Breaking into the sudden thoughts of joy that came upon Serge, Crono continued his speech:

"There I deem we shall find the means by which we might undo the dreadful deeds of last day, and bring all of Porre's foolish might to naught. A Time Egg," he said, turning to Serge with a smile as he said it, "by which the deeds of the past may be forever rewritten, and the most dire of evils be averted."

And suddenly the world that but a moment before has seemed as a dim shadow of grief to Serge became whelmed in light more vibrant and warm than he had thought ever possible again. The past was written once, but could be rewritten, for Leena, at least, could be saved. All this while Crono continued, his words coming sweetly to Serge's ears, and calling his heart and mind to brave deeds of courage once again.

"Yes, this is our fate. It is so come death or ruin, or whatever other torment this world may devise. All we suffer now is but a test so that we are not found wanting when the greatest strength is required. And that day is near. Soon all shall come to everlasting ruin, if we make not haste to work in counter to this evil. If we fail so, too, does our world; it will fall to the tyranny of this new-arising ancient power. But may it never be said that while one of the race of Man yet lived that the earth fell into ruin unfought for! For who, if not Man, will guard it? We are the guardians of its ages; the calling of stewards was tasked to us in the morning of this world, and that will remain with us until it perishes. And now we are called to high deed: doom draws near, yet only assured if we do naught. Well, the call is given. How shall we answer?"

And at that the two dozen arose, their hearts cheered. In an hour, long before the scouts of Porre came to that place, they had set out. For doom or salvation...that was yet to be seen.

(Last Edited October 7, 2004)


	22. The Rallying of Medina

CHAPTER XXI

**THE RALLYING OF MEDINA

* * *

**

Eight days long they sped, crossing the countryside of Guardia. They had left the wounded behind, a choice that grieved Crono to tears, for in so doing he had surely doomed them to death. And yet to delay and care for them would bring to pass a greater loss, and he hardened his mind against any returning.

And it was not too soon that they departed. Ever at their backs they saw the great clouds of reek as the forests of Guardia were burned, and knew then that if the past were not changed, this was a foretaste of the bitter end to the freedom, and very lives, of the creatures of the earth.

But rather than speed them forward with its fear, this shadow seemed to weigh as heavily as a burden upon them, and even their limbs were slowed in the flight. What rest they could find they took lightly, ever in the fear of being happened upon by the marauding bands of Porre; and the symbol of the Flame was an ever-present horror in their hearts. Twice, once upon the evening of the second day, and then again on the morning of the following, they saw a rider bearing that emblem, and the very sight of it was a thing of terror to them. For it was the dread herald of their utter ruin, and the power it stood for was of the most dire evil, that which sought to quench what scant hope still remained in humanity's grasp. But whether it was known that they yet lived, and had found themselves a way to perhaps undo the plans of the enemy, they did not know; it was likely not for, as Sigurd said many a time, if their flight was discovered, not a man in the host of Porre would be spared in their hunting, and all the sorcerers should be at their heels.

Yet, even without so purposed a pursuit, their plight seemed more hopeless as each hour wore past, and ever they wished for a sight of the sea, cross which lay hope. So it was a great joy to them all when, upon the eve of the second of May, they at last saw the waves breaking upon the beaches. And here, at least, there was a feel of peace from the doom-ridden wind that had hounded them their journey long. The waves were as yet undefiled, sparkling silver on blur, and they had outrun the devouring flames that swept Guardia. Here were the East Havens, where the royal ships of Guardia lay harbored.

The old master of the havens had by some premonition or wisdom known of the dreadful things passing upon the western plains, and the ships were made ready to sail even as they arrived. Crono blessed the good fortune of this, though the men begged of him time to rest, to ease their journey-weary legs and hearts. But their king, though he pitied them greatly, knew that to rest would be folly, and would be a perilous step in doom's path. And so they manned the ships, heavy-hearted, weary, and distressed.

"What hope is there in this?" A knight cried as they cast off from the shore, for across the fields a ways inland great clouds of wreck towered, a hundred feet into the darkling sky, and all knew that their homes were now but little more and ashes.

"If we are truly without hope," Crono said, "then let our foes beware our fey wrath. We will perish with their blood upon our swords. But may it not be so, for there is hope. Yes, more than you know."

The man cast a sorrowful look upon his king. He was the sort who, by the dictates of hnour and knighthood, could not speak against the words of his king, but the doubt was made plain nonetheless. He could not believe that any power could undo this now.

"I can see that too," Serge said quietly to Crono, looking rather out to sea than towards the darkness of land. "Across the sea is hope. Your men have never seen the things we have. They can't believe that there are things so powerful that even history can be rewritten."

Crono shook his head, in an appearance of deep thought, then added to Serge's words:

"But from that we should take knowledge of how blind we ourselves are, and how much even we do not see, Serge," he said in a whisper. "I wonder, now: If we alter this day, if we can avert this doom, we will have forged history a new path, again. Yet will not those who live after know it only as it is, and not as it was? See, only our eyes, and the eyes of those with us, will know the truth of the matter. And leads me a certain wonder: was even my journey, and changing of history's path, the first? How can we know such a thing? It may well have been accomplished numberless times before, and if so history is but a ceaseless tale fashioned by the deeds of forgotten heroes who have ever saved this, our world."

"I suppose," Serge replied, "But no one really can know that."

Crono shook his head.

"Ah, I know of one who does with surety; but he would never speak of it, not even if begged. Once, long ago in the midst of my travels, I met an old man to whom all of fate was laid bare. His name was Gaspar, known as the Master of Time in old Zeal."

"Schala mentioned him once," Serge said, his voice trailing as he spoke her name.

"Yes, I believe she did. His domain is the very end of all time, the crossroads for all who traverse its plains, and I came that way many times in my quests. In some fashion Gaspar was my guide, though as his wont was he but gave me not more wisdom and advice than I needed. But once he told me that there were others, many others, who had travelled even as I did. I took but passing note then, being blinded by the urgency of my own quest, but now I think back on those words with wonder. Who are they, those phantoms that I do not know, who have done even as I? Do they know of us, or are we a mystery to them as well? Are they from a past age, or from ages yet to come? Are they of the race of Man? Dragons from before the dawning of our people? Or yet another, before or after, that we know naught of? Greater or lesser than we? What are their tales and stories of their lives? Do they know of me, or am I a mystery to them, even as they are to me?"

"Crono," Serge said tiredly. "Not today. I don't want to talk about things like this."

"It was merely my attempt at solace," Crono said. "These days have been dark for me as well. I had thought to perhaps weave threads of hope into them, with the thought that even if we fail, others may rise to effect salvation."

"If there are others, Crono," Serge answered, "This isn't their quest. It's ours, and I think that if we fail, there won't be any others."

Crono bowed his head solemnly, knowing it was true, and said no more.

----

They sailed for many days, each weighing the more heavily upon them then the last. With each passing hour it seemed the darkness grew in strength, spreading even across the sea, and assaulted the will of their spirits. At last some among them began to weep from despair, and even the three, strong-willed as they were, could not fully hide their own dismay. So it was a great joy, or as great as might ever be at such an evil-fraught time, to finally see the waves breaking upon the western shores of land. They had at last gained Medina, Isle of Mystics, and the resting place of their only hope.

With much speed they ran the ship aground, beaching it on the pebble-strewn shore. Crono was first to disembark, with Serge and Sigurd near on his heels. The others were more slow, however, a sure sign of the weariness that afflicted them. The commanding will of their king, and the duty they bore him, was perhaps the only thing that drove them to follow. Surely each of these was a brave man, and not a craven heart was in their midst, but how much of evil can mortal hearts endure? To some are given greater or lesser strengths of spirit, and if tested all falter in time. For the three, it was becoming trying. For the rest, it was near breaking.

They went onward some hours, treading lightly worn paths that wound over hills and fields, crossing on occasion near the verge of some small woods. Their tongues were silent along the way, however; any desire for light words had long since departed even from the three, who were most hardy.

At last they came to where the path crossed a small brook, and here the men would not continue onward. They begged Crono to allow them rest, despite the urgency that was upon them, for they were weary beyond any care.

"They won't go any further," Serge said sullenly. "I feel like joining them and just waiting here to die."

"But we cannot!" Crono said with a despairing voice, feeling of like heart, but obeying ever the wisdom of his mind. "We must continue."

But as he looked at the eyes of his people, and marked the overmastering despair they held, he knew that they would rather die there than continue on the quest. And so he said, with sad compassion: "Very well, those who wish may stay; I will not constrain any to continue further if they do not will it."

And at these softly spoken words all the men who had followed from the battle plain, save Serge and Sigurd, sat upon the ground.

So they continued, but three, their fear becoming all the more grave now. For how might three accomplish this thing now? Yet they knew that to despair was to submit to ruin, and so they dissembled whatever darkness spoke whisperings of abandoning this quest, and trode valiantly onward. Finally, even as the sun grew dim in the western sky, from twilight or perhaps the brooding darkness that lay upon the horizon, they came upon a small dwelling nestled in the very centre of a grassy vale. They had reached the home of Melchior and, if any hope did remain, it all lay within those humble seeming walls.

The unbarred door opened lightly to the touch, as though it had been long prepared for them to enter. Inside, however, they saw that little had disturbed the dwelling in a score of years. Dust breathed into their lungs, and the delicate weavings of spiders were the chief adornment.

Here and there lay books, small and great, filled with what knowledge and wisdom can be had in this world. For Melchior had been a man of surpassing strength of mind, counted as a chief Master of old Zeal alongside cunning Balthasar and the prophet Gaspar themselves. And even diminished in his exile to this, a far time, he had neither ceased to increase his understanding, nor to press the wondrous skills he possessed into use, thinking chiefly of aiding this darkling world, rather than give much care for his own honour or glory. Crono himself had been in this dwelling more than once; here it was that the Masamune had been reforged, before being held by the great knight Glenn of the South Marches, Crono's most valiant companion of old; here it was that the very rainbow blade that Crono held had been forged, with skill such as only Melchior had possessed.

But the man himself, though fit to be named among the mighty of any age, was mortal, and he had already lived many long years upon the earth even then. He had long years since passed into death, and this house stood as a fading memory of a man both great and humble.

"Are you certain he had a Time Egg?" Serge asked once they had searched the house through, to no avail.

Crono nodded, so that there could be no question about it.

"Without doubt," he said. "But where might it be?"

Sigurd shook his head doubtfully, however.

"Father, I doubt this, I admit. Perhaps ours was but a foolish hope, destined to end as it began: in despair and darkness."

But even as he said this, a shining light seemed to awake in the very middle of the room. It tumbled about, casting varying light here and there.

And then it ceased as, with a gentle thud, a white thing, in the shape of an egg, fell to the floor.

"Ah, you see, there, Sigurd?" Crono said. "You needn't have talked of despair! Here is the very thing we seek!"

Sigurd knelt by it, and raised it in his hands. To the touch it seemed both warm and cold, and through some reason it felt that a great and deep expanse, as though it was the void of the heavens, was held unseen within the silvern shell.

"This is a wondrous thing!" Sigurd cried, his hope rising even as it had fallen. "But how came it here now, and where has it been?"

"Such is the way with these things," Crono said. "They might only appear when needed, or when they are sought, or when it is ordained. Be cautious, my son, for the Time Egg, though created by Man, does not obey his wishes."

"And what does that mean?" Serge asked. "That it won't work if it doesn't want to?"

"If fate does not will it, no, even as the Epoch of old could not when Guardia castle fell. But let us hope that a greater will is at work here, and that all is ordained as it should be. Give me the Egg, Sigurd."

Sigurd placed the Egg in Crono's hands. The king took a long glance at it, and was silent.

The thing was still, and only the light of day, flashing in through the dust-darkened windows, shimmered on its shell.

"Does it need a spell?" Sigurd asked. "Perhaps one of these books might hold some secrets by which its power is summoned."

But Crono silenced him with a raised hand.

"No, this is no magician's toy. It needs no such thing. Masa!" Crono cried suddenly. "Selinros, what say you?"

A faint murmur was heard, and then a laugh.

"You are overlate in asking, old friend," Masa replied. "Or have you forgotten the ties that bind such things together? Melchior gave birth to us; his companion Balthasar forged the Epoch; and Gaspar, the third, created these. Yes, I have some power over that thing of Gaspar's, or in so far as any might. If it refuses me, there is naught that even I can do. But peace! it has not, for it was I that summoned it from where Melchior had secreted it. And so, too, will I charge it with the wish of humanity for aid. Hold near: I will speak to it on behalf of your race."

For a moment there was a pause, and then Masa said:

"Fate, it appears, favours you again, ever-fortunate friend Crono. Be swift, and do not tarry. The Time Egg will give you a chance, but it is charged to you to fulfill it!"

And at that a flash of light, as of a star, shone from the Egg. Then all was darkness for a moment, and thoughtlessness laid hold of the three.

----

Perhaps this was indeed the feel of timelessness, for after none of the three could in any way remember that journey. To memory its length seemed only a moment, and yet time enough, it appeared, had passed. When their eyes cleared they found the moon and stars high above in midnight array, and so knew that some time-travel, at least, had been accomplished. As no darkness lay upon their hearts, they took it to be a good sign and, indeed, when Crono studied the sky nearer (for he had some small skill in such matters), he said that they were at the least three weeks, if not more, earlier, by the difference in ordering of the constellations. Moreover, the Time Egg had done much more than they had wished of it, for Melchior's abode was no longer about them. Rather, it was no longer to be seen at all. The Egg itself was gone, destroyed or departed to whither it would.

For a long while they walked east (as Crono, by way of the stars, said it was), and for long they were in silence. It seemed a strange thing, even to they who had seen many strange things, to have so narrowly escaped from such a powerful doom that had afflicted the world. But at last the dawn touched in the eastern sky, and their spirits were lightened even further when they saw the graceful towers and walls of a great city in the far distance, forty leagues away: Tel-Harfai, the Citadel of the Mystics, was near.

This last stretch was long enough, but it was a brighter journey than any for over a week, and their steps were light. At long last they came to below the great walls, built nearly fifty feet tall from cut limestone, and were hailed by the gatewarden from on high.

"Hi, now! What is your wish in our city, you children of men? We do not gladly welcome your sort, so make a swift accounting of yourselves!"

At which Crono bowed low and, raising his eyes again, said:

"Our errand is of peace and friendship to the people of your race. I would pray you allow us audience in your streets; then you may weigh my words and purposes to better effect. But know that this day I am no enemy to the Mystics. I am Kronos Ter-Guardia, and so may you announce me to the captain of your watch."

Though he seemed loath to do so, the Mystic warden nevertheless unbarred the doors for them (perhaps thinking such three of little worry, in amidst a full city of his people), and they crossed the threshold, treading upon the main way of the city. And certainly there were no few Mystics here, for the city was great and vast, and they had arrived at the time at which the marketplace opens. And in the market square itself the crowd was even greater, perhaps numbering thousands.

The Mystics themselves were a varied people. Certainly they were not human, but neither were they a single race. For there, in the market square, were gathered many of those creatures that, in after days (or yet in other worlds), are thought to be but the fables of myth and legend. But here they stood alive under the sun, real and true, and no airy fairy-dream or the like. Long ago their forefathers had banded together under the banner of Mystics, a name that was later to strike fear into all the kingdoms of the West.

Here there were gathered Dwarves, their beards long and faces stern like the very stone that they delved. Their braided locks were adorned with copper and gold, and the other treasures that have ever allured their race (and which they laboured ceaselessly to mine and shape, in smithskill that few among men have ever matched). Deep places were their love, and they were loath to wander in the unroofed airs of the upper world, doing so only for the purposes of trade or journey. Then there were giants, creatures with the shapes and faces of wild-men, but two and three times taller, and with very much greater strength in their arms. These called themselves in their old language the Jotun, in memory of the days when their fathers had sailed to Medina from the far East in great iron ships. Less comely seeming, and more dreadful, there were Trolls, with their green or brown hide appearing like to the bark of some gnarled and ancient tree (and even appeared quite like stunted oaks, until they moved); these were far smaller than the giants, but of greater stature and strength than any man even so. Here and there wandered also Swart Elves, their skins shimmering in darker shades of blue or grey, or even black as pitch. It was said that it was these, more wise than all the others that, millennia ago, had risen to forge the first Mystic dynasty on Medina, after their race had sailed from their ancient homes in the far north, a lost land ever-enshrouded in mists they recalled in their legends as Nifelheim.

And it was among these, amidst the wondering and oft dark glances, that the three went. Crono strode boldly in the front, yet his hand was fast upon the hilt of his sword. Behind Sigurd, too, clasped his blade-hilt, and walked warily, with his sharp eyes darting ceaselessly at the Mystics that stood about the market, glancing mistrustful eyes upon them. And last came Serge; he carried the Masamune yet unprepared across his back, not willing to show any such threat to the Mystics. Of the three he, perhaps, knew the ways and hatreds of the Mystics best, for the demi-humans of his own lands bore distant kinship, and similar moods, with this people.

But surely the uncertainty of Crono and Sigurd was not unfounded. For the further they walked into the square, the more the Mystics parted with their faces scowling, till at last the three were ringed about by a great assembly. Then they could go no further, but stopped and looked about at the Mystics and each other. At last Crono stepped forward as speaker and said in a great voice:

"Guardia is in dire need, most noble children of Medina. It will fall forever, if not aided by the people of your isle!"

A great murmuring arose, and not a few of the creatures turned about, their faces becoming fraught with disdain. It was certain that they did not care for the fate of Guardia in any which way, and would not gladly aid it or its king.

"Mystics!" Crono cried. "I seek parlay! Answer: will you aid us or not?"

And at this a Troll, a monster of great strength and twice the height a man, stepped from the crowd. The bronze scales of his armour clattered noisomely as he came forward, showing him to be one of the military. His crimson eyes looked searchingly at Crono.

"We are Mystics," his deep and brooding voice rumbled, and all other tongues ceased. It spoke their language well enough, though one might not have thought so at a passing glance of its sort. "And you are an accursed human. Yes, I know well enough who you are, King of Guardia; I have no wish to bandy words with a Troll-slayer."

The Troll took some thunderous steps forward, crossing ten feet to a stride.

"For well do I and my people remember the injustices we were dealt at human hands four centuries past!" he growled, stopping before Crono, where he towered tall.

But Crono was not daunted by either his bulk or words. For he had he fought and vanquished mightier, and his errand was not one of war, but of alliance and peace.

"I will not have you recall to memory old feuds," Crono replied with calm. "Even as I shall not hold you accountable for the slaughter of my people, or any other such crimes of your ancestors."

This, it seemed, angered the Troll, and he brought the point of his lance against Crono's chest, and looked at the king with a dark eye.

But before he could speak any words of his own, another voice broke.

"Well said, Lord Kronos of the high realm of Guardia!" it said, deep and regal. "Surána! Greetings! For I am Teros Azarel, Lord Captain and Emperor of all Mystics of the East, and High King of the Twelve Races scattered about the world."

The Troll, at this court greeting, took pause and retreated a step, withdrawing his lance. Crono turned to the one who had spoken, and saw another Mystic coming forward, flanked upon either side by a magnificent company of gold arrayed Elves. He was a tall Swart Elf, though far smaller than the Troll, his height little more than Crono's own. But even so he appeared to bear a great majesty and power far outmatching the other. His skin was blue as deep azure, and he bore robes of dark crimson, adorned with gilded devices and jewels. His face, sharp and cunning, sat marked with a half-smile. Two eyes, as ebony and shimmering with the veiled power of a great sorcerer, looked searchingly over the three.

"Take only passing heed of my Captain," he continued, bowing in greeting before Crono. "He is a faithful blood-brother, yet does not bear great love for the company of your race. Is that not they wont, Lord Geirrodur?" he asked of the Troll, stealing a sharp glance in that way.

The troll bowed gracefully in respect of the words (or, rather, as gracefully as any Troll might, for their sort are not taken to much lightness) and retreated.

"But you shall not find me so harsh at your coming, not unless you give me cause to be," the Mystic lord said, returning his eyes to Crono. "So, make your purposes plain: whatever for has the great Kronos of Guardia come to Medina?"

Crono returned the dark eyes unflinching, though it seemed a struggle of wills passed unseen between the two.

"You would bandy fool's words at such a time? If you wish me to be plain, I charge you to do the same: you have heard what I have asked," Crono replied, not caring for the Mystic's taunting ways.

"Certainly," the Mystic replied. "My ears are not deaf as of yet, Kronos."

Azarel paced to the side with bowed head.

"So, Guardia is risen for but seven months, and already it slips from your grasp? I say, king, that you should do better to keep what is yours than this. But what is it to my people? The rise and fall of Guardia is of little concern to us and, indeed, there are many among us who would rejoice to see it forever humbled. Tell me, now: why is it that you come? For pity, king? Surely you will not have that, and neither will you have any aid against Porre without better reason."

"Lord Azarel, captain of Mystics, this doom goes beyond the death of kingdoms; it is of the death of all kingdoms, human and Mystic alike. For I tell you truly, the Demon has arisen again."

But quite to Crono's surprise, the Mystic lord showed in no way any surprise, and replied only with calm words:

"Ah, so that is it, then? The Demon has come upon the world again? But Kronos, I had thought that you had destroyed it. It is for this that you are known as a hero, and that tale even the Mystics know well. How, then, is it that it yet lives?"

Crono shook his head, and seeing with a certain anger that the Mystic seemed to be mocking him with his words, making light of the dire peril.

"I do not know," he replied sternly. "But its power marches with Porre. No land, no race, will withstand it. Not even the Mystics of Medina."

"And so with Guardia destroyed, and your army ruined, you come on bended knee to the Mystics, as a bruised child running to his mother in tears when it is his wont to be ever disdainful," Azarel said.

Sigurd was wrathful at this mockery, and Serge was startled at the disdain even the Mystic showed, but Crono was more sharp-witted than either, and saw things therein that neither could.

"Azarel, I pray you tell me: how do you know this? Guardia yet stands firm at this hour, and my hosts have not yet marched from my castle. And yet you speak of ruined armies. For my part, I have, through sorcery, come back some weeks to the past, even to where I stand now, and so I know of what will chance unchanged. But how should you know this? Have you been given some foresight?"

"Foresight?" Azarel laughed. "No, and yet the wings of time have sped me messengers enow. I have bandied words with you, and marked your replies. To my insults you have been ever courteous, and at this I marvel. So I will listen to what you say, King of Guardia, and forego feigned mockery. So, speak."

"I beg an alliance with the Mystics of Media, that we might march upon the citadel of Porre and vanquish the Demon for the last."

The Mystic lord looked carefully upon Crono for a time, then said with a grave voice:

"It is admirable. A request noble and filled with a doom of glory and valour for us all. Into alliance with you, I would surely have placed my people had you come but hours earlier without question. But things are otherwise now, and my high standing is dictated by another. We owe the allegiance of our lives to a lord greater than I."

Sigurd leaped forward, nearly drawing a deadly sword on the Mystic, at which every warrior in Azarel's bodyguard drew their own weapons.

"If you have joined faith with the enemy, you shall be the first to die!" he cried angrily.

It seemed to be a perilous situation, near deadly, but Azarel only smiled, and waved aside the swords of his guard.

"I pray you not be wroth, noble child of heroes: this is not in my hands. Our Lord has returned; if he commands a march, so be it."

"Do not draw your sword!" Crono said, staying his son's hand, then pleaded urgently with Azarel:

"Lavos is neither your master, Azarel of Medina, nor the master of any upon this earth. He is an enemy to all! He need only have the victory if we do not all, Mystics and Man alike, unite our strength against him."

But now Azarel laughed again, seemingly much amused by Crono's pleas.

"Perhaps you should take to listening more astutely, king of Guardia. Did I say that we had sword our lives to that accursed thing? Do not think so little of us or our honour! Rather we die to the last, than have such a thing befall us! But it is as I have said: our ancient Lord has returned and claimed his forgotten throne and captainship. If you would seek our aid, you must treat with him and sway his counsel, though I think that he is minded as you are. Behold! he comes!"

And so saying he swept to the crowds of Mystics, which now parted with great reverence. Between them was a figure. Yet he neither walked, as most things do, nor even fly with the wind as is the way of birds, but moved over the earth without moving its feet, as though the wind were bearing him, and a cape as great as wings caught the wind in behind it. He was tall, and the sun behind cast its form dark in a silhouette. All who beheld him threw their faces earthward in both fear and reverence. For even after four hundred years of absence, he still commanded their respect, so great was his legend amidst their race.

And as the setting sun flashed across the features of the figure, the three took in a sharp breath, knowing him.

Behind his back he held his scythe, and his dark regal hair shimmered.

"But, he is dead!" Sigurd breathed in awe. "Surely he cannot rise from the grave!"

As he came to the centre of the crowd, Janus stepped to the ground majestically, and it seemed the earth shook beneath his feet as his steel boots touched. Bowing his head in greeting, he brandished his scythe about once and cast it to the ground.

"Well now, Crono!" Janus said, his voice echoing in a clear shout across the space between them, "It appears you were too impatient to await me! What is this? Have you forgotten our oaths of friendship?"

In mingled joy and disbelief Crono ran towards his friend he had believed dead.

"I was told you were dead," he replied in wonderment, grasping Janus by the hand. Part of him did not trust his sight, fearing it but a phantom or illusion devised by some ill purpose. But it was no ghost. Janus clapped his hand across his friend's back, a grim smile upon his face.

"Ah, tidings of death, you say? I think Serge has greatly underestimated my power! No, I have not perished as yet. But I have not escaped that day fully unscathed," he added, tracing his finger across twin scars that ran from the length of his forehead, and crossed his right eye.

He turned his gaze to Serge.

"I do not fault Serge for thinking me perished: I was indeed very near to having death claim me. A grave peril, and an even darker day," he said, striding to where Serge stood. "Are you reconciled to it?"

Serge was stoic, little of his grief assuaged even by this unlooked for joy.

"Yeah. As much I can be."

Janus looked at him searchingly.

"Do not entertain thoughts of despair. I will have neither my friends nor allies sorrow-weakened. The north wind brought be news of the ruin of the castle, and the death of your wife was assured to me by the injured you left behind in the glade. But surely my seemingly miraculous return from death betters your mood!"

Serge shrugged at the words.

"Maybe a little, Janus. But I've still lost both my best beloved and one good friend, at the very least. I'm sorry, but I'm not much happier," he said, almost having tears return to his eyes upon being reminded of the sorrow of a few days past. It took great strength to keep from breaking down weeping whenever he thought of it.

Janus looked about, taking account of those gathered.

"Who else have you lost? Leena is dead, but who else has perished?"

Serge looked at him disbelieving. Did he not know of his own sister's death? Surely he had seen it on the plain of battle. And if not, couldn't he feel it?

"Schala?" he asked. "I had thought that your foresight would have spoken to you ere now on that matter," Janus said. Serge turned from him, speaking bitter words.

"Both Leena and she are still dead, and until even one of them lives, I'm not going to ever feel any better. Leena was my beloved wife, and Schala my best friend."

"That I am most happy to hear; perhaps now will your mood be lightened!" another voice spoke from behind. Serge turned his gaze about, not trusting what he had heard.

Before him stood Schala. She was, as Janus, gravely injured. A deep furrowed scar ran crossways from brow to cheek and marred her otherwise fair face. Her gilded armour was ruined and darkened from blood, spilled both of her own veins and of others', even as he had last seen. And though they were not visible, Serge was certain that her raiment hid not a few grievous wounds scarcely healed. Truly she looked as a maiden of war, even as a noble Valkyrie descended from the halls of the gods, hard from the day of battle, for, though her wounds stained her array and features in dark crimson, she made no sign of it as she walked to stand before Serge. She still lived, standing with her accustomed smile across her lips, arms crossways before her; it all brought a sudden light to bear on his heart, for she whom he had thought dead was not.

"Schala?" he asked, thinking suddenly that perhaps a phantom of death had come to torment him. But her eyes were as lively as ever, and proclaimed that she was no apparition, but a living being.

"Be comforted, I'm not a spectre, Serge," she replied. "Though, as Janus, I have rarely been nearer death."

"I saw you die," Serge answered, remembering now that he himself had seen her perish. Beheaded, nonetheless. "You can't be alive."

She shrugged.

"Can't? That's awfully final. Well, I should be dead now," she said then paused, but before Serge could once again speak his amazement she brought up a hand stilling his voice. "But as fortune would have it you did not see me die. The same enchantment that enwound the eyes of our foes blinded yours as well. Hard-pressed we were, but even so Janus still had his wits about him. I fell, and he raised a wraith in my place."

"Not a wraith, sister, as I have said. Her double, which I drew out, and that is what died. That is ancient magic, known once to the sorcerers of old Egypt," Janus said. "Such learning is not light to come by, and do not question me about it further. Sufficed to say, one may even say Schala did die, as judgement for the summoning of the accursed worm."

"We are five again!" Crono said jubilantly, coming up to the two.

"Yes," Sigurd said, with no less joy than his father. "Five with which to challenge Lavos! Indeed, great joy has come to us this twilight. What seemed as a bitter and fleeting chance now..."

"Now is but a fleeting chance, Sigurd," Janus said warningly, with uncommon caution, joining them as well. "Do not be so mirthfully overjoyed in this. Whether we are three or five, our hope is still small. Let us not like fools think our path to be any the easier."

----

But even Janus' words of warning did little to dim the keen joy that filled their hearts that day. Even Serge, still grieving at Leena's death, found much reason to smile. Firstly, the matter of Janus and Schala's very being there was made clear. As it was, all had fully forgotten the manner in which the two had first come to Guardia, many months before. As Schala reminded them, it had been through the Time Egg of Melchior or, rather, that one that rested in the other world (for truly the one from this Crono had made use of, and lost.) In her cautious way Schala had ever kept it near and hidden. And so, even as the great and ruinous battle had ended, and the two, brother and sister, had fled from it, they had called upon its power. By whatever will that thing possessed, they had been spirited to the very city of the Mystics, not hours before Crono and the others; fate, it seemed, was playing a strange hand in all of this. Schala still held her Time Egg (though why it did not depart, who knew?), yet she kept it as secret as ever. And as soon as that was spoken of, other matters were before them.

Throughout the day, Janus and Crono sat in war council with Azarel, Schala watching their contemplations attentively and offering what words of wisdom she might. Serge and Sigurd themselves found that the others had little need of either their advice or company and contented themselves to listen eagerly, for the most part.

"What we must do, Azarel," Crono said. "Is take their capital by sudden storm. That will be where Lavos is; he is vain and overproud, and will most certainly have forced himself upon them as emperor. But even with the greatest portion of their legions out now in the fields of Guardia, it will not be a light task to accomplish."

Azarel glanced to Janus, his eyes asking him of what thoughts his Lord had of this quest.

"I agree, Crono," Janus said. "What numbers would our foes hold at home? I trust they are not fools, and do not extend their hand beyond reason."

Crono nodded gravely.

"If they were, this should be far easier than it is now," he answered, unfolding a worn map that showed the continent of Zenan.

For a few moments, the three glanced across the map in silence. Schala wandered over and peered at it from behind their backs.

"Here," Crono said at last, tracing a finger in a line along the eastern coasts of the land marked as Porre. "Here they have in reserve their Home Armada, the Fifth Fleet. And here," he continued, pointing to the capital, "Will they have their Home Legion, the guards of the First and Second, stationed."

Azarel nodded knowingly.

"You are well informed. Our own spies report likewise. Their armada that holds the eastern seas is not a fleet to be trifled with, I have been told. I have heard report of no less than twenty great ships, armed with cannons; only a fool would take such lightly."

Crono sighed, a shadow of despair crossing his face.

"And I do not expect that you have any ships that could stand in contest to the great war galleons of Porre," he said.

"Come now, Lord Kronos!" Azarel replied with a laugh, his sable eyes glinting with pride. "I had thought that you, at least, knew something of the Mystics. Do you think that we are so foolish as to put no thought into warships when such an enemy as Porre lay but five hundred leagues to the west?"

"You have ships?" Crono asked, amazed, "I have always thought that you did not care overmuch for the sea."

Azarel shook his head.

"That is a strange thought. The Mystics are as variable as humans, and some indeed love the sea no less then your own mariners. And shipwrights enow live among us, and I daresay they excel at their craft more so than do your people."

"How many ships? If you say now that you have an entire fleet of your own, I will call you blessed for all eternity."

"Not that many, my friend," Azarel answered, raising his hand to halt Crono's eager words. "A score and two, no more. But we Mystics are unsurpassed at building of ships."

"Mystics are skilful, Crono," Janus added. "In things of craft, they are nearly peerless. Of Men only those of Zeal surpassed them."

"Naturally," Schala said from behind. "It was we who instructed them in the morning of their races. And it is with them that the old skills of Zeal live on most purely."

She paused, looking across the map.

"The armada lies in guard of their home shore, directly twixt Medina and Porre. We shall have to fight through as swiftly as we can."

"Can't we just sail around them?" Serge asked, though he knew as he spoke the words that somehow it was not a possibility.

Azarel took a glance over to Serge, his sable eyes meeting Serge's.

"No. If Porre is under the commandership of the Demon, then he shall know all we do. Great evil has great knowledge, and I doubt that our sailing out will go unnoticed for long."

"And," Schala added with a quiver in her voice. "We are running out of hours. Today is the second of April. The day of our doom will begin at twilight on the twenty-second. We must destroy Lavos before then."

"But your dozen ships," Serge asked uncertainly, "are they good enough to go up against those Porre galleons?"

Azarel smiled greatly.

"As for that! I should think so. Come, and you will see what the Mystics possess."

With a wave of his hand he led them from the buildings across the town. From every house they heard and saw the signs of battle readying. Serge found himself marvelling not a little at these Mystics, for though they were accounted the age old foes of Man, they had lightly all such aside.

Soon they reached the harbour, and there they stood high upon a sea-wall of limestone, overlooking the ship-havens far below.

Serge had thought, on hearing Azarel speak of galleons and such, to see a dozen fair sized ships moored in the harbor. But this far surpassed all that he had imagined. Eleven ships, greater by far than any he had ever seen in his life, sat tied fast. Though the six stood upon a wall one hundred feet above the ocean, the topmost of the sails went on above the horizon. Serge could only guess, but he thought these ships must be at least a hundred feet long, many levelled and with sails beyond count. And they were black. The hulls, keel to deck, were painted in deep sable, and even the sails, tied fast upon masts, were of like colour. Only the trimming was of different shade, and this gleamed bronze-golden in the sunlight.

And yet even these eleven wondrous ships were but a faint shadow of what the twelfth was. Serge had never thought anything of such size could be built to sail the sea. The stern deck sat at least fifty feet from the water, and the rudder was distant from the bow by nearly three hundred feet. Five great masts towered into the sky, each hung with sails so great that the smallest was larger than the largest on most galleons.

"Alas, had we been told of your need, we might have constructed greater to bear us across the sea," Azarel said. "The great warship there is named Naglfar, and is unmatched on all seas. I think this will suffice."

(Last Edited October 7, 2004)


	23. The Alliance

CHAPTER XXII

**THE ALLIANCE

* * *

**

Night came. Dawn followed it. The next day passed without event as the army of Medina continued to gather from across the isle. Stores were loaded into the ships, and the vessels were made ready battle. From ancient hoards weapons were removed for the first time in hundreds of years, and the rust was ground off swords and axes. From dawn until twilight smokes and fumes poured from the furnaces of the blacksmiths who ceaselessly toiled to forge new blades for the coming days.

In two days the fleet was prepared, and the ships all but ready. On that morning Crono stood upon the walls of the harbor and looked down upon the beaches in amaze. A thousand soldiers - Trolls, Swart Elves, and all the united races of the Mystics - stood in matchless order before the ships. Their armour shimmered dull grey in the morning light; a strange thing when set aside most armies, for the Mystics have never accounted much to the beauty of shining weapons, and the sheen of their blades and raiment is dulled with especial care.

"Azarel, this is a marvel," Crono said to the Mystic lord who stood by his side. "And I must admit, It lends me a certain weariness of spirit to be cast between such joy and despair. Months ago, when I came from the far west, I knew hope. Then, at the death of my wife, I despaired, a thing that birthed a grim-hearted resolve. Then came to me my son, and the redemption of my land, which was a new hope. But war stole that from me so shortly ago, only finding it return anew with your gracious aid. Azarel, I am war weary; and what is more, I am life weary. I long to join my wife."

"So are the trials of one born to high standing and a noble destiny. I know what it is you speak of; I have scarcely passed a peaceful night in a score of years, fearing for my people. Porre is ever at our doorstep; rather, at all the world's doorstep. Their ambitious fingers, it appears will not rest until their power encircles this world."

"And now with Lavos, that is but a trifle for them to achieve. Or, rather, for him to achieve; the ambition of Porre has betrayed all this world to dark dominion."

But Azarel looked at Crono sadly and said: "Let us pray not! We yet stand undivided, and the final victory is not his yet."

Azarel looked keenly down at the ships.

"And soon we will see in whose favour fate rules: we need but mount our cannons upon the decks, and then all will be prepared to sail. Make your company ready: we will depart ere nighttime falls."

"Cannons?" Crono said curiously. "Tell me, Azarel, when was it that you learned the fire-craft of Porre? I did not know that any but the Empire had the knowledge of its use."

"Fire-craft?" asked Azarel. "Porre is filled of skilled men, I am certain, but none as can outmatch my Mystics. The birth of that craft lies in us."

"It is a Mystic weapon?" Crono asked, but nodding with understanding. "Little wonder that we were so undone by Porre's sudden onslaught. I have oft wondered from where they so swiftly gained such a mighty array of weapons."

"We are no fools, Kronos, and will not sit idle while our neighbours breed themselves thoughts of war. Even if we do not hold warmongering ambitions of our own, and have not seen battle for centuries, we must be ready should war come against our will. And we are certainly mistrustful of humanity. I hold us as brethren people, but there are many others, even among my own captains, that would ill endure the comradeship of a man alongside them. And so we remain her upon our isle, and busy ourselves in our secret crafts; we have grown much in skill. But for Porre..." Azarel shook his head. "When they sent their emissaries twenty years ago, I was wary, but welcomed them with kind greetings: for too long had we remained untouched by the world, and I thought the time ripe to have friendship with Man blossom again. They feigned interest in our arts and grand buildings, professing to be in amaze over our enchanted halls, and our countless gems and skill-wrought trinkets. But they were fools, and could not hide from my wisdom that they took a keen interest in our weapons above all else. I saw at once for what they wished to know such things, and bade them hastily depart from this isle, with no light curses upon their errands and empire. But even so we could not forestall them for long. It seems that arts of treachery are the not weak among their people: they thieved our secrets, and not long after set about their conquests of the world, like so many fools before. Yet perhaps not fully ill-advised, for who could stand against such an array of weapons?"

"Not Guardia, that is for certain," Crono answered bitterly.

"But take heart, Kronos of Guardia!" Azarel said. "We have not allowed them to discover all our ancient crafts. Some we still guard to this day. Come, and I will show you a thing that no human eyes have seen ere this day in friendship."

He led Crono the way of the great limestone stair of the harbor, and down to the beach. Here now could be seen that great armour-arrayed trolls were drawing cannons of steel or iron across the beach to the ships, from a storehouse in the cliffs. And into this store-cavern Azarel led Crono, unchallenged by the guards that stood needlessly at the mouth.

The chamber inside was vast, eighty feet to the ceiling, at least so wide, and a twice as deep. It held a great armament; far too much to be carried on the ships, it was surely meant for defence of the island against the menace of Porre, should their zeal ever enflame them to assault Medina. Azarel strode to a black-iron cannon whose barrel was twice as long as that of the others.

"This," he said, touching the metal with no mean pride, "is a great treasure of our people. We knew the secrets of this long before we devised our gun powder."

"What is it?" Crono asked curiously. It seemed like the cannons that he had seen before, and yet not, in certain ways that he could not place.

"An ancient weapon, Kronos, known once in antiquity as Greek Fire. It has the selfsame power of a dragon's breath, for it can cast fire, a flame that not even water can quench."

Crono smiled.

"Unquenchable fire upon ships? That is a potent weapon if used aright. I pray it turns the battle for our favour."

Azarel turned to face the tumultuous sea, his gaze reaching far out beyond the horizon to where Porre lay days of sailing beyond sight, and said solemnly:

"As do I. If we fail in this war, then there will never be another again. All will be utterly lost forever."

4

That night they put to sail. With them were all the ships of the fleet, loaded wightily with both armament and soldiers. These went uncounted, but at a glance Azarel told Crono that the seven legions that were marching into this war numbered near to five thousand (for legions among the Mystics were counted smaller than those of the kingdoms of Men), and among these were not a few of both the Jotun and the Trolls, unmatched in strength by any of Porre, and many Swart Elf sorcerers robed in scarlet and hafting pale scimitars of hardened bronze.

The lead ship, the great dromond Naglfar, was captained by Janus himself, and the chief Mariner Lord of the Mystics, an aged giant named Hymir, steered it. Only when they made to board it did they see that what had appeared to be an unbroken sheen of black upon the hull was not truly so. Rather, when seen nearer, it appeared to be as no other ship for, like the hide of some great sea-serpent, the sides of the ship were armoured in scales of some black metal. All among the Mystics professed it immortal to the shot of Porre.

They sailed many days long, for the crossing from Medina to Porre was even greater than that stretch which lay between Guardia and the Isle. At last they could see by the guiding stars that they were nearing the beaches of the Empire, and that the next day would bring them within sight of the shores. The twelve ships sailed with scarcely a sound upon the waveless waters, the great ship Naglfar at the lead.

And on this same ship were the five, with Azarel standing beside them. For a long while no one spoke, and all was silent in the night: chill and clear, as was is so oft the case in those waters in the spring. In the sky the stars were arrayed undimmed, and flickered upon the water as though in a mirror of black glass. It seemed as though there were no cares of war or whelming darkness and evil to worry the heart.

"This night is of hope," Sigurd said at last, and his voice was loud and clear. "Father, was there such a time of peace as this when you went on your old quest?"

Crono smiled.

"Many, Sigurd. If there had not been, we could not have stood fast against the many things we faced. But the last, ere our great battle against Lavos," he paused as he remembered back the many years. "That last respite was in the great woodland that lies at the heart of Porre."

"That was surely a happier time, then."

"Indeed," Crono said. "Porre was yet accounted a friend and ally in those years. That night all seven of us sat about the fire, and knew that our final battle was fast nearing. We did not know what fate awaited us at the dawning of the sun, and fully deeming death and failure to be our doom we revelled in the peace of the forest night. Neither before nor after have the stars appeared as bright or as keen to me as on that night. Though tonight may rival it."

Janus' laugh broke through the night.

"I daresay it is but an illusion, Crono. This stillness, this peace...it harbors a menace for me. I know full well that this is but the calm before the break of the storm, and that over the far horizon lies such a tempest as may overwhelm us. It is no comfort, but a night of fear."

But before he could say more, Schala spoke:

"Say not so, Janus! We must take comfort in this night, and see that it is for such very beauty that we fight. Even as we might learn from the dark stars that no longer shine, we must not ever cease our struggle against evil, hopeless though it might be."

"Hopeless you say?" came the reply, and this was of Azarel. "Nothing righteous is fully hopeless. My people trust to powers greater than ourselves and, when all of our mortal strength fails us, even then there remains hope."

Then Janus turned, looking up at the sky.

"What to trust in? What in all this world is sure? Nothing is. All will fall to ruin, and come only to the fate of Zeal."

"Truly, truly, Lord Janus," Azarel answered. "And so must one trust in a strength older than time, and more boundless than the eternity that encircles the world, to which the might of men and demons alike are but shadows and whispers of frailty."

Then Janus nodded, well answered, and spoke no more for a time, looking only out upon the waveless sea, and upon the array of shining stars. For Janus he not spoken rightly; there was no fear in this night. The darkness that enveloped the world was that of comfort and repose, and held perhaps some echo of how things should have been in an unscarred world, free of sin.

4

The next day dawned with the sheen of the rising sun burning at their backs. And at their forward a rank of white sails upon the far horizon proclaimed the Home Guard of the Porre navy.

"Ah, accursed luck," Azarel muttered. "There are far more than we had accounted for."

Janus looked keenly across the sea to the ships, but could see little more. At last a sharp eyed Mystic said:

"My lords, I descry two emblems: the blue chimera appears to adorn a great number of the banners, but there is another force there as well. They bear a crimson chimera. I think it is their western fleet."

"How can that be?" Serge asked, breaking his silence shortly. "That'd have to be some quick sailing. I thought that they were still anchored on the far side of Porre."

Janus shook his head, his face grave.

"They are forewarned of our coming. That can be the only answer."

And all knew that this must be so. For the ships were arrayed in order so as to halt their passing, as though their course was perfectly known. And they did not approach, but rather waited, a menace on the horizon.

"But they know naught of the strength of the Mystics!" Azarel cried at last. "Hymir, have the mariners go each to that place and station, and make ready that which is assigned them! Call for the readying of the cannons!"

All about the great deck the mariners ran here and there, tying fast the great weaponry, and piling the shots of iron. Serge looked upon these with both interest and a quickening heartbeat: the cannon-shots were near the size of his skull, and he knew that they could shatter through even a dromond with ease. Though this was not to be his affray to take part in, his hands shook with apprehension, as they oft did ere battle; he was in no less peril, of that he was certain. Glancing out to sea he saw the line of ships become ever clearer. The white sails appeared now as low-lying clouds, and seeing them so he wondered.

"If they were smart they'd line up their ships with their sides in our direction, so that they could hit us as soon as we were in range," he said aloud.

Azarel who stood near laughed, and replied:

"Yes, maybe it would be wise, Valsaer Masamunë. But they trust too much to their own strength, and think in their numbers that they will overwhelm us. See: they seek to draw us in and envelop us, and so are making certain not to frighten us into flight."

"The cannons are nearly all prepared, my lord," a Mystic Troll rumbled from mid-deck.

Azarel nodded and raised a hand in signal.

"Bind fast the sails; let them not be seen!"

A full hundred of the crew saw to this at once. High above the sails were drawn up and tied fast. At the sides of the ship the mariners brought forth the last of the cannons and fire guns.

"Do we not need the wind?" Crono asked, glancing up at the scurrying Mystics that had now almost fully drawn up the sails.

Azarel smiled grimly.

"Most certainly. But we will have greater need of it later than now, and even if Porre cannot halt us they will at least essay to rob us of our sails. We do so to keep them safe."

He took up a bitter glance to the ships of Porre, stepping in some slight disquiet about the deck.

"Azarel," Crono said, his absent gaze fully on the near arrayed armada as well, "this day the Mystics have shown themselves to be brothers of Man. We will not ever forget this."

Azarel bowed, a grim smile touching his lips.

"Brothers? Maybe, yet it is in your nature to forget, but I hear you, and will remember it. If we live to see a victorious dawn against the Demon, let today be remembered as blessed by both our people. Not before have the Mystics and humans cast aside their wars to stand as brothers, as it should be, and I foresee that it shall never be so again. So let us take such joy as we may in this alliance, while it is."

From the near ships a deep rumble echoed across the sea.

"A cannon shot," Azarel said grimly. "It begins, though only a warning or test of their weaponry, little doubt. We are still a touch out of their range."

"The sails are raised," Hymir said, nodding to Azarel. "The fleet stands ready, at your commanding my Lord," he paused, "and at your bidding, my Lord Master Magus," he added, bowing before Janus.

Janus, at these words, leaped up to the prow of the ship, his cape catching the swift wind in its folds. As he turned about his cape swept around him.

"We neither tarry for any that stray behind of our friends, nor do we wait to destroy all of the foe. We do what we can, and break through with all speed. For this day we race against time, my beloved Mystics; every hour lost hastens defeat, and that doom will be the final darkness, should it come to pass. So do not falter! May your hearts be bold within you! Hail, Mystics! This is your hour of glory!"

And even as these words escaped his lips, the battle was begun. The first of the ships, the swifter and lighter of the Porre armada, came upon them, crossing to either side of the great Mystic dromonds. A full five score of cannons echoed across the sea; their shots swept through the air like lightning, and thunder heralded their approach.

But they had accounted little on such hardy ships. One dromond was indeed sorely hurt, for the blackened hull was scarred with not a few great rends when the volley abated, and some were fearfully near the water; those who looked upon it knew it was surely lost. But, for the most part, the ships had withstood the onslaught; and Naglfar was fully unharmed, the shots having skipped off the hull as harmlessly as bullets from a dragon's hide, granting it a seeming immortality.

"Make a return: fire as you will!" Azarel cried. The great ship shook as the manifold cannons were set to fire and shot. The smoke that rose clouded their sight somewhat, but even so it was plain what frightful destruction they had wreaked upon the enemy fleet. Five ships were listing, and it was certain that they could not be saved. Many others had suffered less grievously, yet even so turned their rudders to flee, being too sorely hurt to continue in the fighting.

And thereat the host on Naglfar laughed greatly, taunting the men of Porre. None echoed more loudly than the voices of the Jotun, and those are most fearful to hear. A few of the ships broke from their order and turned. A grave error, for the remainder of the Mystic armada now began their own assault, and as the great swath of a scythe through grain, so was the volley of their cannons. Masts were splintered to kindling, sails torn ragged, and wooden hulls blasted with countless holes. A fell shot found the powder stores of a great warship and, with a roar of fire and smoke it burst, scattering its once proud banners across the sea.

But many were the ships of the Empire, and though eighteen were sunk or gravely damaged, there was a great host yet unfought, and these now sailed forward, the fire and smoke from their guns clouding the sea in a grey mist, the echo and roar being as peals of thunder at the onset of a storm. But again the Naglfar sailed through unharmed, though in behind a further two more of the black ships were lost amidst the gun-wrought mist, drowning into the sea.

"Three lost," Crono cried above the drowning noise. "Azarel, will you brook such an onslaught? We need every man, near to as much as we require our speed."

"Indeed," Azarel replied, "and I grieve for our loss. I have bided my time, but now it is ripe. Cast loose the fire!" he called aloud.

And so it was that a weapon then unlooked for was sprung upon the unwary navy of Porre. Never before had the armies of the west seen such a thing, and was terrible to behold. Tongues of fire, burning hot as those flames of a forge, leaped from the ports of the Mystic dromonds. Those of the enemy caught too near were at once beset with a ravening fire that kindled to flame their proud timbers and sails. They turned aside, though it was hopeless: the fire was unquenchable once begun, and they were only fleeing to find destruction inescapable.

In this sudden device few of the Porre armada had been caught, with only four or five ships ablaze.

But upon seeing this it seemed that a maddening fear had been loosed among the captains of the other vessels. They swiftly banked their own ships to the side so as to avoid the fiery doom that had befallen their comrades. Surely their cannons continued the merciless assault yet so, too, did those of the Mystics, and they held the upper hand in not being affrighted of the nearness of their foes. Another score of ships was drowned in the sea, and with that the fleet of the Mystics broke through the last of the Porre armada.

They had lost only four ships in the affray; Porre lay worsted upon the waves behind, fire clinging to some proud ships, and others simply foundering and dying without much grand display. But this was sure: no less than three score of mighty warships were lost on the sea that day, and the fleet of eight black ships continued to the land of Porre, far across the horizon.

"The Terosvínta lost," Azarel muttered. "Likewise the Istranash. And two others beside. They will be sorely missed."

"Yet a great victory nonetheless!" Janus called from the helm, and came to the deck in a single leap. "Porre will not lightly forget this," he said, rising from his landing. "Thirty of their vessels lie at the sea's bottom. And the Naglfar our pride has victored unharmed."

"And yet we come to the shores of Porre with but two thirds of our army, Janus," Crono replied. "More than one thousand of them have been taken by the sea. The Home Legions that now await us number twice what remain, and that is if we are fortunate. I begin to fear this hopeless."

"Yet in hopelessness we may find strength, father!" Sigurd cried.

"Indeed," answered Schala. "That has ever been our wont, has it not?"

Serge nodded to this.

"Maybe. That's an old saying; I hope it's true today."

And Janus laughed grimly.

"It will be, I am sure! This is the day Lavos himself will know fear. And that which he fears will be us! Cast the despair out of your heart my friend, for live or die it will be a grand contest this day!"

4

And so they came to the shores of the land they sought, the empire wherein rested the throne of the demon Lavos, the master architect of their doom. With great speed the armies disembarked, a vast host upon the shore. The clatter of the armour was noisome in the failing day, and looking about at all of these, Serge heard Janus say to Crono: "I daresay not even wise King Ratha of the ancient world could have gathered such a mighty host; perhaps, now, there is some cause for hope."

He turned about his scythe in his hands, making play of it for the coming battle. He was armoured in quite a fearsome array, a livery he had been gifted by the Mystics: a black-ringed mail hauberk, darkened armour, a grim-seeming helm, and weaponry such as he had not borne for many years: a mighty black-shafted scythe, and a greatsword upon the blade of which were scripted ancient letters of Zeal, claiming it indestructible. For that matter, all three had been given such in the way of armour and weaponry, for the battle ahead would surely be dire. Crono and Sigurd bore full arrays in the style of Guardia, of mail and leather; Schala wore a coat of more delicate rings yet also, as her brother, bore armour overtop. Serge was little accustomed to such things, even now, but did the same nonetheless. Finally, Schala availed herself of a second dagger, and Crono of a small knife of some ancient heritage. And with that the march inland began; the citadel of Porre was near the sea, but even so it would be some hours of marching.

A fog arose from the sea as they went, and their going was shrouded in mist. Serge could not see, but heard well enough, as the host move all about him: the low growls of the trolls; the hearty laughs of the Dwarves; the noble and mighty sounding tongues of the Swart Elves as they whispered their spells to each other. And the footsteps of the Jotun he both felt and heard, for the rumbling echoed across the plain.

At last the fog lifted, and they saw that they had not been short in their march, for in the distance they espied the towering pinnacles and limestone walls of the capital of Porre, sitting as a white gem upon the verge of the field. And to one side, encamped a short ways from the city, was the army that stood to bar their way. The ships had failed, but now as the sun set they saw that it might well be that the army upon land would be their foil. Before the tents was arrayed a splendid host in blue and silver, with their chimera-adorned banners high and proud above them; but more fearful, to one side, a grimmer host stood: dark-arrayed, they bore the dreadful banners of the flame above their heads. And the count of them was vast.

Upon seeing this army, a host most likely greater than fourteen thousands, near all the Mystics cried out in despair. Only the Jotun voices were silent, for they are utterly fearless of death. Then two stepped forward, and raised a challenging cry across the field; doubtless the men of Porre heard, but none had the voice of a giant, and so no reply returned.

"We must fight through this? We are doomed," Janus said plainly, so that only the chief captains could hear. "How shall we ever come to Lavos, when such an army lies twixt us?"

Crono, too, looked dismayed, and the fear was not lost to Schala either, nor yet to Serge or Sigurd.

"We do what we may," Crono said with a deep breath. "That is all that is tasked of us in this life. Some are given peace, others war and death, in their varying times." He drew his sword. "Yet even so, I should have liked my end to be more hopeful."

But even as he said this Azarel turned about, facing his host, and cried.

"Peace, and be still, my brethren of Medina, beloved Mystics! We fight today not against humanity. We do not war against another race, as has been our tale for so long. This day holds the chief of all battles ever fought upon the plains of this earth since it was born out of the darkness. For now we contest the might of the Demon, and all who die in valour upon these plains shall be called blessed forevermore, and their names be remembered in Medina so long as the race of Mystics endures! Let death not shake you, let not fear unknit your minds! So I say to you: be bold, raise high your swords and lances, that the Demon himself may shake with fear upon his terrible throne, and say in his heart: truly, here are the fearless mighty!"

Crono nodded gravely as Azarel ended, and spoke low to Serge.

"We have now reached the twilight of our fate," he said.

But Azarel heard, and turned to the king saying:

"Yet it is not your doom to partake of this battle, Lord Kronos. Our blades will taste the blood of the armies, but your swords are not needed here. To other things your destiny calls you. Let us be the shield against the demon, whilst you strike for his heart. For this day holds in its hand the fate of the powers that hold dominion, and now order the world."

Schala glanced across the armies, both of Porre and the legions of countless Mystics.

"I see, then."

She bowed deeply before Azarel, then fell to a knee.

"Truly, you are a dear friend to Man. All the riches of old Zeal could not repay this debt. We thank you."

Azarel shook his head.

"No, speak not of debts. For it is the duty of all of good-will to contest this Demon, and to each is given their part in this grand ending. There are none among us with the might to challenge the Demon to battle, and so to you is fallen the greatest and most perilous of fates. We do what is in our power to accomplish, and you must do the same."

To the west the sun was sinking to the horizon. The wooded hills of the country were crowned in the fading brilliant crimson that shone from this twilight. Time was growing short; perhaps half an hour and Leena would perish. They would need be swift.

"Even as I once dreamed," Serge muttered, casting his gaze away from the dimming sun. It darkened his heart to remember, and to realize that it seemed to be that that which he had once dreamed of was now coming to fulfilment. Would the end be like as well? At that moment is seemed that the spinning wheel of fate sat still. Who now knew which way it would turn: for salvation or ruin?

As a whispering wind blowing unnoticed beside a great tempest the five swept along the verge of the field. North, across the plain, they saw the ranks of both armies only distantly. And their path led not there, but towards a yet more ominous end, perhaps: before them, to the west, was the great city and capital of Porre. The pinnacle of the great white citadel rose tall and spired from the centre. But this great city was near empty, or at least seemed so. To their disquiet, they found not a watchman on the walls, and the East gate was unbarred. Every window was shut as they went along, and not a guard challenged their going. It was as though a plague of death had descended upon the city, creeping in through every door and alley. But yet more fearful was this: it was as though prepared for their coming.

This was a worrisome thing, for certainly Lavos knew of the battle that was being joined upon the field. Could he, in his dark cunning, have overlooked their approach, silent though it was? Certainly not.

"He knows we come," Janus muttered, the first words any of them had spoken within the bounds of the city. "He tries us with doubt and uncertainty, thinking to weaken our strength. And he is vainly arrogant. He opens his doors to us, for he thinks us powerless before him; he is a fool, for the folly of that lesson even I have learned."

"And yet if he is a fool, he is one more cunning than any other upon this earth," Schala said. "It is only outmatched by his malice and dark-learned strength."

And as she said this, they came to the great forum. It was marked with many fountains, though all were silent, and lined upon either side by high columns, each adorned with the praises of a past emperor. In better times it may have been a fair sight to see, but for now the five cared nothing for it. At the far end stood a grand and tall building, of alabaster and inlaid lazuli, where the Senate of Porre would meet.

"It is there that he waits," Janus said. "Curse him! I feel his thought upon me. What hatred we bear for each other..." he looked distantly at the far building, and cried out heedlessly: "But ere this day ends, you or I shall relinquish his life!"

Schala looked severely at her incautious brother but, too, felt that none there were that would hear the call, or seek to stop them, save one alone. And he awaited their coming. They ran, crossing the great forum, and with a flash of sorcery burst the doors.

Within was a great hall, of limestone and gold-inlaid marble, set as an theatre of the Greeks, a crescent of ever higher levels. Banners of crimson and blue hung from the high domed ceiling, marked with the emblems of the regions of the land. Surely this was where senators would debate matters of governance, and the floor onto which they ran was the very one upon which many a wise man had spoken his rhetoric. But now, at the dimming of the sun which cast only a few humble rays through the high windows, it was grey and empty. And silent.

There were neither guards nor demon, and only the wordless hall stood before their eyes.

"Where?" Serge cried with no small impatience as they came upon the throne room, devoid of any being. "He's not here!"

Sigurd looked about impatiently, putting his hand to his sword. Schala closed her eyes and took a moment's thought.

"Not here, but near. His throne has always been nearer the heart of the earth. It will be so now as well, for he seeks to draw what power he may of it; it is his stolen strength."

They found the passages to the lower chambers near at hand, and with swift steps they followed the spiralling stairs down into the lowest delvings. Torches lined the way, but rather than give guiding light, they seemed like sentries marking their way, and passing news of their coming down the ranks. For ever as they came near a torch it would flicker and nearly die, but spring to new life again once they had passed, burning with a certain un-holy light. But the walls and stairs, at least, were cut straight and smooth, and their going was quick. Neither was there any branching, and it seemed that they had by chance (or more likely, by the dark will of another) found the very way they sought. This tunnel, however, ran deep and long, or perhaps it was only an illusion. Time seemed without meaning to their minds, for all thought rested upon the shapeless malice that haunted their spirits. With every step they felt it gain in power, and they knew that they neared it. And at last the time was at hand, the very place before them. For the stairs ended of a sudden, and flanked by great torches there was a mighty arch, and beyond a vast hall of stone that faded far into the darkness. And in the black there dwelt a heart of terror, and it was a great feat to cross the threshold of the gateway.

In the dancing shadows of the room there was a thing, robed as though a shade of some dark realm. Perhaps tall, yet maybe short, but though they could mark none of it, they felt it without doubt vile and evil. And from under the darkness it strode nearer, with loud echoing footfalls that in the room were like thunder.

"Lavos!" Crono cried, and it halted. "I have come! Let this now be ended."

And the reply was so:

"Indeed, old foe, indeed; you have passed through much grief, I see, to come to the foot of my eternal throne. One thing only remains in your trial, but you shall find the cost of your stubborn-valiance too high. As your two fools of Zeal would say it: es hadon tosh Artumo. This is the night of your dark fate."

(Last Edited October 17, 2004)


	24. Es Hadon Tosh Artumo

CHAPTER XXIII

**ES HADON TOSH ARTUMO

* * *

**

With a swift movement that echoed of a magical grace Lavos drew forth his sword. The five looked upon their ancient foe, a stern resolve upon their features, for they knew that once more their final battle was upon them. For this they had lived, suffered deep grief, bled, and now might well perish. At the vanguard of his company Crono smiled with a certain grimness as he perceived his doom finally draw near, knowing that the completion and fulfilment of his life was at near at hand. At his left stood Janus and Schala, the mighty children of ancient Zeal. Upon his right stood his son, and beside him Serge. All together drew their weapons, and the sound of it was a clear ringing of freedom and hope. All together whispered a silent prayer for those they loved, for the world, for future days, and above all for the strength to face this matchless evil.

Their foe paced before them, his dark robes flowing behind him as the waves of a moonless night sea. He was unafraid, even of them, who were the mightiest of all the people of the world. And he spoke no words, needing none as his dread voice echoed like a shadow of evil in their minds:

"So once again you seek to destroy me? Immortality is my gift, and eternal I am and shall ever be. What seek you here but your own destruction, foolish children?"

Crono stepped forward a pace, undaunted by the hideous voice that mocked him.

"No, naught is eternal within a bounded world. Dominion can be held for an age, or two, but not forever. Every age has its ending, and so, too, must you fall for a new age to begin."

Their enemy laughed aloud at these words from under his shroud, much amused as it seemed.

"Unless it is an unending age now upon the world, as you shall soon learn, Frey of Guardia. You deem yourselves strong? Then I shall show you true might and glory!"

He cast aside his robes, and a dazzling flash of light flamed before their eyes. Indeed, now uncloaked, their enemy seemed not dark, as they had thought him to be, but bright and fair seeming.

As he stood before them he seemed as an angel of light, tall and kingly, even as a Lord of ancient Zeal in glory. And in his hands his blade, which they had before perceived as hideously black, now shone golden as a brand of the sun. His clothes flashed with the glory and colours of the sunrise woven, it seemed, with the light of stars. In his fair and noble face was the light of midday. They were not deceived, however, for they knew that beneath this display of beauty lay the most vile of hatred and malice.

"A fair raiment to cover a foul soul," Sigurd muttered at Serge's side, gripping the hilt of Meredter the Starsword tightly.

Schala, too, was not beguiled by this sudden beauty, for she of all had suffered most from this being, and knew well what darkness he held in his black heart. She stepped forward, undaunted by the light, and keeping her eyes unwaveringly on her shining foe, though it burned them to tears.

"Cease this, demon. I know you, Lavos, far too well to fall to this guile. Trickster! You cannot hide your heart from me, for we were once as one!"

"And can be again, Schala of Zeal. You can fulfill your mother's dream of immortal life!"

He spoke with voice now. And gently, for the words came from his mouth with sublime grace to match his peerless beauty.

Schala shook her head, ill-pleased with the mention of her mother.

"Who are you to speak of her, or her wishes? You know naught of this! Her dream was, at first, only of prosperity and peace, for all the world. She was good beyond your reckoning, and through her that had been the dream of all Zeal, at one time. But you deceived her, corrupted her, and filled her mind with such unholy desires. And for that crime, one among many, you shall now answer."

Serge could feel a certain rage in her voice, only barely restrained, mingled with a sadness. And she spoke softly, yet with veiled power that seemed to cause Lavos to yield. But instead he turned his gaze to Crono.

"This girl, it seems, will not listen to reason. But what say you? You who are peerless in war-craft. Once we were bitter enemies, you and I, but it need not always be so. Your heart holds grief, and in this matter I can aid you. For my power is matchless, and what I wish is so. Turn to me, and my gift to you will be this: to restore to you the one whom you loved above all others.

But Crono, as well, would not treat with him for, though he desired above all else the return of Marle to life, he knew the offer that Lavos tempted him with was false and tainted.

"No, that I would have least of all. She lost her life nobly, serving to the death those who were under her sworn protection. Who am I, or you, to deny her such an end, or to try and unwind the webs of fate? No! I would have her rest in glorious peace forever rather than have us bound as slaves to your will."

Lavos shook his head, sadly, as it seemed.

"As you wish it, then. But know that it was not out of malice that I offered you this. Now, what of you, mightiest of the mighty, prince of sorcerers? Child of Zeal, Janus Magus, captain of the Mystics, can you discern wisdom when you see it?"

"And with what offer would you tempt me? I have seen your power, and I rejected it. I have felt the darkness, and spurned it."

"Have you, now?" Lavos questioned, fixing his angel's eyes upon the wizard. "You have abandoned all your old ways, then?"

There was a pause, and none spoke.

"So you have not. Know you why? Only power can overcome darkness, and you have not strength enough to do so. Yet I do! And such might I would grant you, friend, so that you could forever free yourself of its mastery of your heart."

"And through that power save myself, but bring the world into everlasting night? You know that I would be a powerful servant to you, and so try to beguile me into your allegiance with treacherous gifts seeming good. But I am a perilous a foe, and such I am and will always be to you, till one of us falls or the world ends."

"Three spurn me through hatred, two perhaps would show more than blind fear. Sigurd, son of heroes, do you not see your father's folly? You never knew your mother, and now your father would rather she remain dead. Will you follow him in this foolishness?"

Sigurd cast a glance of anger at Lavos, brandishing his sword about. It did not strike him so near as it had Crono, but it gave him cause enough for anger.

"Attempt but once more to speak of my mother, and I will see to it that this sword is your end."

Lavos sighed heavily.

"I had thought not. But what of the Master of the Holy Sword? You have lost one whom you loved, but to me to restore to life one dead is a light matter."

And it seemed to Serge that he could perceive a wavering form take shape before his eyes. A silken image, half seen, half unseen. And it seemed to be in the form of Leena. For a moment uncertainty grasped hold of his heart, followed by longing. But it was only a shadow, he knew suddenly.

"Phantoms is all you're master of," he said angrily in dismissing the sight from his mind, and it faded like a passing dream. "Aha, see? You don't have any true powers of life. You can only kill, and bring up shadows in mocking of what there was once. It was your power that killed her, and I won't forget that."

Lavos continued to pace, each step making hardly a sound. But for all that had passed, even the rejection of his promised gifts, his countenance was not one of wrath. Rather, he spoke to them as a kindly elder reproaching an unruly child.

"What pity. Are you all so stubborn in blind hatred? Why must you ever insist on rebelling against me, and breeding such enmity twixt us?"

"That is our duty as citizens and protectors of the world," Crono said, "for you are the ancient enemy of our planet. You are the foe of the human race."

"That is a grievous charge, my friend! What have I done so infamously to be worthy of it?" he said, laughing softly at the dire accusations that were dealt against him.

He ceased pacing and retreated to his throne. A seat that seemed to be wrought of silver inlaid with gold, and bejewelled with many gems of every hue. He sat down majestically, placing his glimmering sword across his lap in the way of a king seated to mete out judgement. Not a shadow was in any corner, and it appeared that they were outside, under the noonday sun.

And now Janus stepped forward, leaning on his scythe, the shadows beneath his cloak the only darkness in the hall.

"You know well that of old I swore to destroy you. You ruined my land, Zeal the Magnificent, the land of one thousand names and the wonder of all kingdoms. Its like will never be seen again, and the beauty that it was has perished from the world forever by your very hand. Had not the powers of the Seven Heroes united, by fate gathered from all ages, you would have done likewise to this whole earth in due time."

Lavos laughed gently upon his throne.

"Did I truly do all that? I admit that if I did, friend Crono would have a cause for his charge. But you speak greatly of things that have yet to happen. Deign you to know what course the future will now take, now that things are changed? But Zeal, that land of beauty, met its end by its own folly, not my malice. Who was it that sought to draw of my power, and disturbed my ancient sleep? The people of Zeal were overanxious for my strength and, alas, delved too deeply into my sleeping mind. It was that power, too great for those of human race to master, that drove your mother mad."

Janus drew his scythe towards himself, gripping it with both hands.

"You would lay the blame on my people? Do not think you can so easily deceive me! Had the Seven not contested fate, the world would have been lost to you for you sought, and indeed still seek, to destroy all of Mankind."

Lavos waved his hand, dismissing the words and charges as if they were no more than idle banter. His peaceful eyes had the sheen of pearls.

"But why should I wish to do such a thing? Have people not gained from my knowledge? Have they not learned from the Frozen Flame, and gained great understanding therefrom?

Serge shook his head upon hearing of that jewel, and spoke out loudly before Lavos.

"That thing is a curse on the earth! We've seen what you want for the future. Your will is only to destroy, so that you can continue to destroy. Whatever your purpose with the Flame was, you never wanted us to handle it. Though I would guess that it worked well to your end, didn't it? We fought and bled for its power, only to find it and have it twist and destroy us! Oh, very glad you were, I'm sure, to learn that your mistake would have an end so likeable to you."

"I will admit that I did not lose the Flame by my own wishes, Serge. Yet the end fruits of its power may be widely argued by better minds than yours. You say I am glad that some met folly by its power, but why should I rejoice in it? What meaning is there to that?" Lavos asked with a frown, turning his head in Serge's way.

"Evil does not require meaning. That lesson you taught me, Lavos," Schala said softly.

"Did I indeed, Schala? Well, as you feel you know so much of my mind, tell me truthfully: did you not see that I also bore hope?"

Schala paused in contemplation.

"Yes, I felt hope, I admit it. But I could not tell for what."

"For the future of this world. I, too, had grand dreams, once..."

"Yes! Black dreams: of death, of destruction, of woe and grief..." Schala cried in return, her eyes flaming perilously.

Lavos bowed his head and softly shook his head. The five were unsure, and for that moment of silence they glanced at each other, not knowing what to do. But at last Lavos lifted his eyes to them, and they were more radiant than before.

"Do you not have such dreams also? Do you not dream evil thoughts and nightmares, for a time? Yet are these a display of your true nature?"

Schala scowled at these words, for she could find no fitting reply; her clever condemnation had been bested.

"So you deem to judge me by my dreams, then? How should you measure if I did so to you? But I desire not to judge you. Rather, see me now, awake!"

And, indeed, the light seemed to grow all the more vibrant and warm, like a sunlit afternoon of high summer.

"And, if truth be told, Lavos is not my name of origin. That despicable title was given to me long ages ago in unearned hatred."

"Old lore. Yes, I know that well enough," Schala began, but Crono spoke first.

"Yes, I know also. I was there, six score and five million years ago, when you were bequeathed with that name by which Men have called you ever since, that which signifies 'great fire,'" he replied. "All too apt a naming! For your coming heralded the destruction of the Reptite kings: an entire civilization and race!"

Lavos sighed.

"I do greatly lament that. Yet, have you never crushed an insect with an unknowing footfall?"

"There is a great difference," Crono said in harsh reply, glaring at such an excuse of the deed.

"Is there now?" Lavos said softly. "Do you claim to know how God measures life, even of an insect? Tell me, Kronos, since when is it the way of warriors to be philosophers?"

"The Reptites were more than insects, so much at the least I know. They had a wisdom and knowledge of their own. Arts and sciences, learning and beauty, of a sort now lost. Because of you, and your descent in destroying fire. Those creatures were more a brother race to humanity than any other that has since arisen."

"Some would maintain that their kind lives yet in the blood of the Mystics of Medina, Kronos. And if I were to ask you of your dealings with that people, could you then so boldly profess them to be your brothers? Need I remind you of the countless wars fought throughout all of history twixt your two kinds? You hold them now in leaguer on an island that they are loath to depart from, save at great need; only now, in hatred of me, do you feign brotherhood with them. No, the truth, and you know it well, is rather that the Reptites hated your kind, and sought your end. Had they endured, they would have destroyed all humanity. Your race would have ceased to exist ere it had taken its first faltering steps. Yet then, when your death was near at hand, my coming heralded a new age for the world: the age of Man. I, Lavos Terkur Asant Nastro, was your saviour from those ancient beasts."

To this, Crono could not argue. He knew it to be true, as did they all.

Yet it was he who came found the courage to finally speak again, after a long silence.

"But not only in the past is your evil shown. The future is the judge of your deeds, and I have seen it, and so perceive your truest intent. Har-Diom, your throne, and the future of our world, both grim and hopeless. Power, death, and despair! Those are what your strive for, for when you did indeed awake you destroyed the whole world in a day and night of ruin! You brought forth the apocalypse upon the unwary world!"

But once again, Lavos answered gently.

"Ah, yes. Har-Diom: Death Peak," he said, and it appeared as though the shadow of a long suffering crossed his brows. "A grave error on my part, I admit, and I am ever burned with remorse for that end. Alas, I had judged that in the time I had given mankind, the millions of years and generations, they would have been prepared for my awakening. That was my truest dream. But they were too weak, and my coming destroyed those I had hoped to call children and friends and be teacher to. It was that that darkened my mind, being in lamentation that my grave error should have done so much evil. What you saw on that accursed peak was the manifestation of my sorrow. Can you not understand this, friend Kronos? I know you must, for long have been the years of your life, and you know how wicked the manifold chances of this world can be. Behold! as it can be for men so, too, is it for the greater, for me; I am not beyond fate, and am still subject to chance. And ill indeed was the chance that found me on that accursed day of doom."

Crono nodded, seeing some reason in these words. For ever they had hated Lavos with eyes blinded by the fear, and had not been willing to see him as anything but a perilous enemy to be vanquished.

But, though Crono furrowed his brows in uncertainty, Janus was not so easily turned; looking in dismay at his comrade who now stood in profound thought, he brandished his scythe about with a growl.

"Lie as you wish about your intent, it will not beguile my eyes: I was there when at last we fought you, battled to change that doom-swept future. If you intended in truth be our friend, why then take the very life out of the earth? Aha! Answer it. I know that was what you were striving to accomplish. Lady Ashtear learned of your intent, ere the end. Tell me now the truth: were you not taking all life, and creating a new shameful being from it?"

Lavos nodded.

"Indeed, I will not deny it. Though I grieve to now understand that you saw this as evil. Yes, I was bringing a new life to the Earth. This was my beloved creation, which you slew. But you must see, that is the wont of my people. Do not think that I am alone, that there are not others as me in this boundless world. We are a people of creators and wandering artists. We seek out new worlds, and for millennia that seem long to you, but are a trifle to us, we sleep and learn of the ways of that world. Then we arise and create our works, the fullest union of all life on that world, as a gift to the planets that we visit. They are the lasting monument to our meeting, for a part of everything in the world, and us, lives in it."

Janus cast a dismayed glance into his heart, feeling it turning from wrath to understanding despite the desire of his mind to do otherwise.

"But my mother was destroyed by you. And that is a slight I shall never forget," he said, though his words had become suddenly unsure.

"I am truly sorry for that, Janus. It is to my discredit that I did not account for your people's attempt to draw power from my sleeping mind. It destroyed them, I am afraid. You must see, I never truly awoke in that ancient age. I simply drifted between dreams and, as chance would have it, without thought destroyed Zeal. And then, when I awoke, I found myself with a world destroyed by my good will. How bitter a fate, and even more bitter to come, as for this I dearly paid due, when you heroes appeared to do battle with me."

He smiled at them.

"Then it was that I saw that not all my hopes were vain, and that there were some of all the world who were strong, as I had wished."

Crono looked warily across the room.

"And yet how can this be? You speak of Death Peak and the future as we do, as if it were the past. And yet you have not traversed time, and should not know of these matters. I ask you, Lavos, by what means do you remember Death Peak? We destroyed that future, so to your mind it should be as though it never was."

But Lavos did not falter in his words, and so truthful they seemed that they were not doubted.

"I remember what was once to be, as you may remember a dream. My nature is of a different sort than yours; do not think that my spirit is fully held within the shackles of time, and my wisdom may discern much of what may yet come, or has come, though the future is changed. But, though I know of it, that end never came to pass, and for this I am eternally thankful to you. You atoned for my wrong. And now may I do things aright."

"But the Tesseract, Lavos, is yet unaccounted for. I remember you there." Schala countered.

"Do you? No, you never truly met me, as I am now. What fell into the chaos of the Tesseract was my future self how it might have been, saddened to darkness through my destruction of mankind. The same you once saw on Death Peak, Crono, and that I remember yet as a shadow. You remember pain and sadness..."

"...and anger, and hate as well. Do not twist my memories. I will not have you deceive me!" Schala said between his words.

"Yes, yes, I will not deny my wrath. Yet it was at myself, and was over my failure at not having greater foresight. Do you think it a light thing upon the heart, Schala, to have slain near every living thing upon an entire world? To arise and see the dreadful day laid bare before you, and to hold the blood of countless innocent lives upon your hands? Do you think me in my grand power to be untouched by fear and sadness, or remorse and despair? I assure you this is not so. And to know that one must make an account for this misdeed before one's elders is a fearful matter. Yes, that darkness and fear that was to be me fell into the Tesseract and found you, I am sorry to say. Yet it still harbored the dreams that I once had, of what might have been. Did you not feel these? But you are keen-sighted, Schala, so I need not even ask; surely you must have."

Schala frowned, suddenly unsure of what her memory told her.

"I remember a desire to destroy all," she said at last, holding fast to a feeling that seemed to be fleeing from her memory.

"Sadness can bring one to think terrible thoughts, even for the mighty," he affirmed.

"So did we ever yet meet you to your face, or is this our first meeting? What did we slay, then, if not you?" Crono asked.

"What you destroyed was my first creation, Crono. Yes, you did face me, though not in this, my true form, as I appear to you know. For in my fear I hid in other guises, and strove to elude your just judgement. But I could not do so, and you averted my arising, saving your people and the world from my misguided strength. This very nearly cost me life itself, but I escaped and endured, as a shadow or dark thought fleeing in fear before the coming of the light. But I bear no lasting ill-will against you for this. Rather, I thank you, for you kept the evil future from ever coming to pass, and righted my wrong. Then the last shadow of my sadness that might of been, that which went to the Tesseract, was met and destroyed by you, Serge. Now, because of your hero's deeds, I may stand once more righteous before my peers and elders.

"Yet do not tell us that you had no part in bringing this about!" Schala cried of a sudden. "You summoned the city of humanity, Chronopolis the Mighty, to the past. What else for than to empower the future to welcome you rightly?"

"Ah, so you strike upon the truth of the matter at last! You see it now as well? I could not do so with a direct hand, but my will touched upon the thoughts of the people of the future, and it bade them make use of my Frozen Flame, as they called it; through it my purpose was achieved, and I could draw the city to myself in the past. That jewel was both the cornerstone and capstone of my power, for of old I had poured into it my subtle skills and long learned strength. And so it is a source of power unmatched in all my worlds. The power of the City of Men come to its zenith alone could withstand the splendour of my coming!" He paused with a touch of glory coming about him.

"And yet it seemed that some did not wish this to come to pass. The City of the Dragons appeared at that very moment to do battle with the City of Men, or are our histories mistaken, Lavos?" Schala said curiously.

"They are not, Schala of Zeal. Indeed, some dark will, one that I cannot fathom and which works against both you and I, seeking to estrange us, summoned it in counter of my purpose. It stirred up the old feuds twixt Reptites and Man; but my faith in your race was not unwarranted! They victored over their old enemies, and endured to continue as to my purpose. But now let us cease this endless prattle over things long done! I am indeed mightily in your debt, and I would not have you depart my halls without a just reward. What do you wish in this world? I can grant you your heart's desires, my friends, for at my fingertips is the power of heaven and earth. Nothing can equal what you have done for me, so if you will I may even grant you immortality that you, as I, need never see death; then shall you become my companions and together we shall travel across the countless stars, through the millions of years, and seek new worlds for eternity."

And with these words they at last understood the meaning of many things that before had seemed hidden. That that which had seemed to them the blackest of evils was in truth the brightest of lights was but a curious chance. And it livened their hearts to know the great good that they had accomplished, and that now everything was right. Serge looked over to Janus. Even the dark wizard smiled, things now being clear. For the end of all earthly struggles was at hand. War would now be overcome by peace, and a new golden age of prosperity would come upon the world, under the hand of Lavos. Sigurd, too, smiled, and glanced lightly up at Lavos who sat upon the throne of silver.

All would now be done aright.

But suddenly Sigurd stepped back a pace as if struck by an unseen blow, and his face darkened in fearful dismay for a moment. Yet it passed and, with a broken laugh, he crossed his arms and nodding with an understanding look on his face. And yet if one were to have looked closer, it would have been discerned that the laugh was half of fear, and that his face had suddenly been leeched of colour. He leaned over to Serge and whispered in his ear

"Clever. Most clever indeed," he said with a trembling and terror-stricken voice, and nodded towards Lavos.

Serge looked over to Sigurd, frowning. He could not understand what was being told him, though something began to gnaw at him, and he replied with no mean anger:

"What?"

Sigurd smiled strangely, as if he knew a great secret.

"It is his eyes that betray him," he continued. "For, even as the gods of legend, he cannot hide them, at least, behind lies."

Serge frowned, not understanding. He glanced up at Lavos, who sat in benevolent majesty, a mighty and righteous king. His eyes shimmered starlike.

For a moment Serge saw only the eyes of a being great and good beyond compare. But then his heart chilled with a cold fear such as he had never known. Not in all his years and deeds had he known such sudden terror as in that moment. For it seemed that, as he stood looking into the peaceful depths of Lavos' eyes, a shroud was drawn aside. A pit was opened into them that descended into the uttermost blackness, a darkness unfathomable in human understanding. A void of naught but malice and fear. For a moment it seemed that he would be drawn in, and his soul quailed in terror. But he wrenched his sight away, and the greatest of the fear passed.

Once more he saw Lavos, kind and majestic. But now he knew that, while it had appeared that they were in the presence of an angel of light, they had been falling under the clever spells of a devil of shadows.

The fine words and peaceful expression: they were a deception, all a ruse to draw them off their guard. What magic had dimmed his wits so fully?

And now he began to see this thing as it truly was. The fair features of Lavos had not changed, but they did not carry the beauty they had held before. They seemed themselves corrupt, though in what way Serge could in no wise tell. Something was amiss and, though his eyes still read the sight he saw as fair, a sickness took hold of his heart. It was evil, but in the guise of good. It was this that made it all the more horrid, a thing twisted, such as should not ever be in the world.

And so, for all his cunning, Lavos' guile had had one grave flaw: few of his words had been spoken to Sigurd, and whatever the sorcery was, it had been weak upon the child, even as he had deemed the child weak.

Serge opened his mouth, slowly and with growing fear and despair.

"Curses! Schala, step back!" he stammered with urgent words.

Schala looked over at him, and he saw that her eyes were pale and sightless, lying yet under the deceiver's spell. Even as he had surely appeared a moment before.

"Serge, I hardly think such harsh words are apt here," she said, but her voice was without true feeling or understanding, it seemed.

Serge himself retreated a pace, and drew up the Masamunë from where it lay on the ground: his guard had faltered, but he could not remember when. With the sword in his hand, his mind cleared fully, though he still felt fear, as of someone who has lived so long in a dream that they are uncertain upon awakening if the world they see is truth or illusion.

"Schala, it's a spell! It's sorcery, dammit! Your dagger, pick it up!" he cried, seeing her knife slip with a noisome clatter to the stone floor. Only he and Sigurd perceived it clearly, it seemed.

"This is not the time for weapons," she said simply, and Serge despaired at being able to draw her from her stupor.

A swift whistle rent through the air: Sigurd had let fly an arrow, and its point quivered in the wall beside Lavos.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lavos asked, frowning darkly at last. For certainly he had seen that the two had shaken aside his spell, but had remained till then silent, perhaps deeming that the holding of the other three was of greater importance. But the arrow had shattered his calm guise.

Sigurd struck another arrow to his bow, and said:

"You have spun an intriguing tale, mighty Lavos. But you are a liar. Enough of this trickery, accursed above all. You seek to draw us to you so that you may devour us. Well, take us at your peril."

Serge stood beside Sigurd, blade in hand. The other three still stood unmoving in uncertainty and disbelief, still seeing only what Lavos wished them to. They did not see any reason for these sudden violences towards the one who professed to be their greatest friend and teacher.

Lavos rose majestically, tall and kingly to the three, yet terrible as an evil stormcloud to the two, and it seemed to them that light failed at his glance. He gripped fast his sword, seeing that two at least of them were suddenly at odds with him once again despite his words.

"What is this now? Am I not your friend, Sigurd? Why dishonour yourself in this way, striking for me, who is unarmed and a brother to you?"

"I pray you not mock me, dark lord. It is not I who have lost honour, for it was not a chancing thing that I missed you. Rather, it is you who have turned from honour, speaking with a forked serpent-tongue. I for one, will no longer listen."

He swung his great sword forward, and stood in stance, ready for battle at a moment.

Serge, too, brandished his weapon before him, eying Lavos darkly, angered over having been so lightly deceived.

"So two of you would now betray my trust? No, turn from this and I shall yet forgive you." He said craftily.

But his spells were failing: now the other three were loosening from the spell of his words. Though he still seemed fair to their eyes, a dark dread had fallen on their hearts, even as it had already upon Serge, brought about by his malice towards the two.

Schala stooped and bore up her dagger, not fully certain, but wary once again.

"Why is it that darkness flows from you so, mighty Lavos?" she asked him cautiously.

He turned his gaze towards her, but his anger had overmastered him, and the light emanating from him was neither as bright nor as pure as it had been. Now it seemed that the sun had fallen behind a sudden cloud.

"Why, Schala, I am most distressed by this evil shown toward me..."

But in turning to face her eyes he erred, for she saw now too what the others had seen, and gasped shortly. It brought fresh to her mind the evil torment she had once endured in the Tesseract by his hand, and that fear of remembrance brought her sudden fury to bear on him.

"Damn you, lying serpent!" she cried.

And in anger she lashed out, flinging a dagger at him in a wheeling streak.

But Lavos was a mighty being, and could not be so lightly caught. In an unseen movement he grasped the whirling weapon by the hilt. The dagger melted to nothing in his hand as his countenance darkened upon them.

Janus clenched his teeth bitterly, for now both he and Crono were freed once more. And he called to Lavos in dark wrath.

"Though it may attempt to hide behind honeyed words, and maybe remain hidden for a time, evil shall ever reveal its true self in the foul fruit that it bears. For abhorrent crimes you remain yet unrepentant and untried. Now the time of harvest is here at long last, your evil revealed in all its fullness." He pointed to Lavos in anger. "Think not that you can escape my scythe that shall yet cut you low!" And he brought his weapon to bear before him in the manner of a challenge.

At these words of malice and challenge, Lavos gripped at his sword all the more, his face showing anger at Janus, and at all those that had escaped his cleverly placed words.

But Janus was not finished yet, and taunted Lavos once more.

"Well now, come and fight, for I see now you are a weakling and a coward who must hide behind his words, ever running and skulking, using others to do your evil will and dark bidding. But run no longer! My mother shall at last be avenged upon you, so come and fight us if you are not frightened as a little child!"

They were brave words, and not in fullness true, for Lavos had no fear, only cunning malice. But their purpose was achieved for, as they were spoken, all hope for guile left Lavos, and he darkened all the more. Now the bright sun no longer shone, but was hidden altogether, as the darkening clouds of a thunderstorm hide its light behind towering and gathering darkness. And even so all sounds seemed quenched, and the air was heavy with foreboding, and apprehension of doom.

Then Lavos yelled to them in a dark rage, in a voice born of darkness.

"Curse you all! But for you your world would have been my kingdom forever! Now shall I deal with you as you deserve, for your lord will show you no more mercy!"

And so the storm of his fury was at long last upon them, all rays of light perished. And what had been as distant and foreboding rumblings of dark fate was now as the fury of lightning.

Lavos no longer attempted at trickery, for he knew it was to no avail. Now he came at them from his dark throne, in a form monstrous and fearful to behold, the chamber trembling beneath his mighty footfalls. It was as a creature of night that he appeared, a seemingly visible embodiment of anger, hate, and darkness, and indeed of all evil will. His raiment was darkened, and the hues of the sunrise had now become as the clouds of night which veil the moon and stars. He bore his dark blade before them, its edge shimmering with the chill power of evil. Not one of the five did not wish to flee then, seeing at last their enemy of old uncloaked as his true self, for it was more terrible than they had ever imagined. The mere sight him filled their hearts with fear and despair, and made their limbs to weaken. Even bold Janus, who had spoken such dauntless words of challenge moments before, felt his heart quail. Yet their valour still held sway over their minds, and their hearts renewed their courage.

And with this it was that battle between the servants of light and dark began once more, and the doom of the world was cast upon the scales of fate.

Striding before them, crowned in darkness, Lavos swung first for Serge with fearful strength, and the Masamunë shivered under that blow. Any lesser weapon would have been shattered to pieces, but it bore it, for the Masamunë came in origin of ancient times, made from the very Dreamstone whence magic itself had been born. And yet it was not without grief that the Masamunë deflected the blade, for it was that the sword of Lavos was a mighty weapon, indeed. It had been forged in darkness on some forgotten world in the morning of the universe, and was engraved with secret runes from the dawn of time itself; and its power was in the dreams of darkness, of nightmares and terror.

And yet in that meeting hope yet prevailed, for the dreams of righteousness could not so easily be vanquished, and the blade was turned. But that stroke was forever remembered in their minds, for that clash was as of the meeting of the noonday sun with the starless night, and the echo of it caused their hearts to both despair and be uplifted alike.

Serge stumbled backward, reeling from the might of the swing. Lavos struck again, the dark blade sweeping as a dark flame through the air. But upon seeing Serge falter, Crono rushed up before him, and it was now the Rainbow that turned the blade.

Crono struck back a well-placed blow for Lavos' chest, but found his own sword no match for the dark armour that encircled his enemy's waist.

Lavos laughed in scorn, his mocking bringing the anger in Crono to rise. In fury he whirled his sword in a great swing, hoping to cleave off his enemy's head in a swift stroke, and thereby end this war for the last time. And yet Lavos stepped back a pace, and the blade went short. Finding nothing the blade went too far, and Janus, standing near at Crono's side, had to parry his friend's blade with his own simply to avoid death.

"Crono, caution!" he hissed between his teeth as the Rainbow glanced off the scythe-blade. "And patience! We take him together, for he cannot stand against five, no matter what his might!"

Crono nodded in agreement, cursing himself under his breath for nearly beheading his friend.

Lavos stood back, bearing his sword before him, and cried in an echoing voice:

"Craven fools! You fear you death. You cling to life overlong. Come now, children! Prepare your souls for death, for such will be your unescapable fate this day!"

But now Crono stood valiant and unmoved by pride. Serge, still somewhat frightened by the power they faced, yet fully unhurt, leaped up beside him.

And Lavos smiled. Wickedly, for he knew that no might of arms could overcome him, and in magic he was a peerless master.

"If you seek to flee from your fate, it will simply find you all the faster. Ha! Hide behind your enchanted weapons. They will not avail you this day!"

And so saying he raised his hands upward, his eyes glowing like the smouldering embers of a rekindled fire. A dark wind swept past Serge's ears, and a dark premonition touched him.

"Beware! Black magic!" Janus cried sharply in warning, the first to foresee the coming sorcery.

Before more could be said an evil fire, dark as night and cold to match, flamed out from Lavos.

Crono and Schala both leapt aside hastily, the rivers of dark flame running scant paces from their feet. Janus, slow to move, put forth a hasty spell of staying, halting the fiery magic before him, though for moments the contending sorceries wavered unsurely. Both Serge and Sigurd, however, stood too near the middle, and could neither move nor had the strength of spellcraft to counter the fire. By virtue of the blade he held Serge was saved, for the tongues of flame shied away from that holy blade, and appeared to fear it. But Sigurd was not half so fortunate. The chill fire encircled his calves, and he clenched his teeth in anguish. As the fire faded he his eyes shut wearily and he tumbled to the ground, his weapon falling from his hands with a clatter upon the stone. In a moment Crono was at his son's side, as Lavos raised a laugh of mockery at the scene played out before him.

"Sigurd?" Crono asked urgently, fearing him dead. Sigurd did not reply. But, indeed, he was not dead, for the blood still ran through his veins. But his skin was frozen chill, and a dark sleep, deeper than death, had been cast upon him.

Janus looked menacingly to Lavos as he, too, knelt at Sigurd's side.

"He toys with us. Curse you, Lavos! May all forsake you before the end, so that you may know the anguish of despair you have dealt unto others!"

He looked back to Crono.

"Leave him! He lives yet, but if we do not fight, I cannot say the same for us."

And standing once again, he swung about his scythe to his side. He glanced to Serge at his side, and Serge nodded, bringing up the Masamunë. They leaped forward, one to the left, the other to the right, and their weapons moved at the very same moment. But they did no injury, for Lavos saw their attack approach well enough. The Masamunë glanced off Lavos' own blade in a deft cross-parry, and it went harmlessly aside. Janus' scythe on the other side nearly found its mark, and it seemed to him that the battle was won. But Lavos turned aside, and the blade swept past. Reaching out an accursed hand, he gripped the shaft of the scythe. Janus mightily attempted to keep hold on it but, for all his strength, Lavos was the stronger. He wrested it from Janus, and, breathing words of dark sorcery upon it, threw it behind him, where it shattered to pieces.

And once again Lavos laughed, driving a swift blade for Serge. He leaped aside, leaving Lavos still untouched, and laughing.

His mockery echoed despair in their hearts, for they saw no way to overcome him. Janus drew forth his sword, and looked with question upon Crono. Only by his guidance had they victored over Lavos before, and he saw it was only by his leadership that such a thing could be accomplished for a second time.

All the while Lavos stood calm, with waning laughter, perhaps awaiting their stroke, or maybe withholding his own for some darker purpose.

"Come now, Janus," he said in calm mockery. "Shall you quail now? Your scythe lies broken. Lo! So shall you, too, as befalls all who stand against me!"

But now the four stood firm together, unmoved by his words. As of yet Schala had held back, fearing to strike her power upon Lavos in the chance that she would harm her companions that stood near the Demon in the same stroke. But now she stepped forward, and made trial of her own strength: about her form a blazing cloak sprang up, and her eyes were kindled, as though she were some angel of flame, even as those of fiery Arien who commands the blossom of the sun.

"Janus, brother, to me!" she said, her voice deep and dark as if it was not her own.

He at once stepped to her side, and upon him his power became manifest as well, as a cloak of dark shadows, mantling him nearly unseen: only his crimson eyes shone from amidst the darkness.

Lavos stood without a movement, marking his foes but making no try at a counterspell or defence. His sword he held blade downward at his side, and a sneer was silent on his lips.

Roth!" Schala cried, and Janus took up an echo of her words. "Sai arnach elth achos! Amer sai! Val ar diom taks saio!"

They were gravely potent words, but the stroke went ill even as it was begun, as it had not been without reason that Lavos had stood in silent mockery. For to him magic was not as a skill to be learned, nor a science to be mastered, but an art inborn that one may move with the mind. He had carefully marked the spells of his foes. The fire leaped forth and encircled him, but did not harm him. The darkness grasped its fingers about his form, but he put forth his might, and it vanished in even darker night. Gathering the power set against him for his own, he sent it back as a lance of burning darkness. Before he could move aside or halt it, it struck Janus fully in the chest. Nor did his armour hold off that stroke, for it was born of his very own power, and he toppled heavily to the ground.

But even as he fell, both Crono and Serge came forward, flashing their blades to strike Lavos down. In this Lavos was nearly caught, having been too fixed upon striking down Janus. With a hasty turn of his blade, he parried the blade of the Masamunë, even as it fell down for his head, for a second time turning aside the holy blade, and defeating the skill of the one who carried it. But Crono, for his part, never even stood withing striking range of his foe. If he had, it might have gone suddenly ill with Lavos, but a lance of dark light felled Crono to the ground as he rushed forward, burning ravenously through his armour.

"Curses..." Serge muttered, leaping back as Lavos' own blade swung forward for Serge's chest. He moved aside, and leapt to where Crono lay.

"Crono, you alright?" he asked urgently, seeing his anguished friend writhing on the ground.

"Yes," Crono answered painfully, rising with the aid of his sword.

Yet it was somewhat feigned, and he was less injured than it seemed. With a turn of his wrist he loosed a knife that he held fastened to his side. It wheeled through the air, catching Lavos unawares.

And for the first Lavos winced in pain, and his countenance was not one of self-assured mockery. Drawing the black-bloodied dagger out of his arm where it had struck he drove it for Serge, who stumbled backward as he warded it away. At once Crono leapt to his side, the Rainbow swinging in a perilous arc. Yet, faster even than sight, Lavos slipped aside, brining an iron hand hard across Crono's unguarded face. Spinning, his helm flying from his head and to the ground in ruin, he fell heavily to the ground, his sword clattering out of his grip. So once more Lavos turned upon Serge.

"Schala!" he yelled urgently, as he struggled valiantly to evade the heavy strokes that came for him.

All this while Schala had been at her brother's side, attempting to raise him, and fearing him slain. He was not dead, surely, but his mind would not wake. He was undone with his own spell, and a dire enchantment that was. She looked about in dismay. Sigurd still lay frozen. Crono had fallen to the ground, and was not stirring. And her brother she could not raise.

Serge's cry echoed across to her. Only he besides herself still remained standing, and if he too fell... it would go hard with her, alone. Leaping to her feet, she saw him falter, and the Masamunë slip from his fingers to the ground. Death was near.

"Lavos!" she yelled, causing a short pause in her foe. In that moment she loosed a desperate stroke. She leaped forward, by her magic nearly flying, and came upon Lavos ere he saw her approach. She drove a fell dagger thrust for his chest. So he would have died, but still his evil armour held true, and turned the blade. Shaking aside whatever surprise had mastered him, he lashed in return his fist for her.

Unable to evade this lightning blow, she felt his fist drive into her chest with all the force of a ram. She flew against the far stone wall, struck it hard with a sickening noise, and fell still to the ground.

Then Lavos turned smiling viciously upon Serge.

"She was hardly able to stand to me. How much less you, for she was thrice what you are!"

With thunderous steps, he advanced on Serge, now alone. In his hands Serge gripped again the Masamunë. And yet he had no hope in it saving him, for ever had Lavos even turned aside its usually sure blade. And his words spoke true: not even Schala had stood against him. She lay by the wall, her face and arms bloodied and torn. He hoped her not dead.

Lavos reached out an accursed hand: gloved, dark as night, and cold as the talons of death itself. Its chill froze into Serge's mind, and he felt his head swoon. His will wavered. His fingers loosened themselves against his wishes, and the great Masamunë fell from his hands. The evil fingers clutched about his throat, and the ice that poisoned his mind swept through him, speeding through his very blood. He desperately tried at resisting yet, to his dismay, found that his arms and legs had lost all their strength, the cold evil having either drained all power from them or bound them with magic strong beyond Serge's undoing.

"So that you may watch, Serge," Lavos whispered. His voice was soft and subtle, yet seemed all the more evil for it. And to hear his name spoken by the very lips of Lavos pierced a spear of horror through Serge.

"Watch," Lavos repeated with a cruel smile, fixing his devil's eyes on Serge, "and know what folly it was to try and contest my will. You shall see those you love perish before my hand, and shall be made to watch as I bend your very soul to my own power, even as I did to your dear friend Schala once."

It was a terrible voice, and the taunting mockery of the words, speaking of horrors that now seemed sure, set him nearly to tears. Lavos laughed, perhaps seeing the strength slipping from his foe, saying:

"And soon I shall come into my title that should always have been mine. I shall be the King of all Men, and they will revere me as God!"

And with a smile of supreme malice, Lavos released his iron hand, and Serge fell painfully to the ground.

But even as Serge fell, his limbs frozen beyond his power, he felt his heart recall some hope to it. For behind Lavos, unseen to the Evil One's eyes, Serge saw Crono rising again. Undaunted, his eyes shone as, with a cry of hatred, he swung his blade at Lavos. His stroke was too short, for he had misjudged either due to his injuries or some craft of Lavos'. Yet still the tip grazed the neck of the Demon, and the black blood flowed forth as he cried out in agony.

As the monster turned upon Crono, Serge felt the malice flow from him as a thing near visible. No movement could Serge make, though he put forth all his powers of both body and magic. Perhaps had he held the Masamunë would it have been otherwise, but it lay on the ground but a few paces from his fingers. In his mind he cursed his weakness.

"Lavos, I shall be your end yet!" Crono laughed, in glee over his near stroke. Twice now had he wounded his foe and, though he stood now alone, he was undaunted. In his hands the Rainbow shimmered more vibrantly than ever before.

"Your valiant friends lie here about you!" Lavos cried in return. "Not one can come to your aid, forsaken hero, you who is spurned by fate! And it is none but I who have struck down all the others. Now shall you, too, fall, and your mind be forever bound in thrall to my will!"

He raised an evil hand. Untouchable, invisible, a spell wound itself about Crono. He could feel it, its claws driving into his mind, a foreign power of malice assaulting his being. Despair, it commanded him. No hope remained. Submit to your Lord, it tempted, and then all shall be well again. Wincing against its power he brought a bolt of light down upon Lavos. It did precious little injury, but the spell was broken, and Crono leaped forward in desperate attack. He had little hope in the exchange of spells. Even Schala, of them all the greatest sorceress, had been defeated in this. Yet in his hands he held still a sword, and in swordplay he was peerless in all the world, throughout all times. Of all things, only in this could he hope to have victory. Sweeping about, with his tattered cape unfurling behind him as though it was the wings of a great eagle, he rose above the ground in undaunted defiance of Lavos. The wind and lightning danced about him at his call and will, a testament to the power that ran fire-like through his veins, and a challenge of might against the strength of Lavos.

And this challenge the was indeed answered. Leaping through the air as swiftly as wind upon the waves, Lavos swung for the figure of Crono, poised in a grim ready. With a rending flash their blades met, and both fell faltering from the air to the ground. Crono leapt up swiftly, his arms quivering, and his blade notched where it had struck his enemy's. But he laughed when he saw that Lavos had fared no better from the short affray, a great mar in the black blade edge of his sword. Roaring with flamed rage, Lavos thundered forward again, locking their weapons once more in combat.

And so Crono fought alone and unaided, yet still standing steadfast against his foe. But hope had left him for, despite his near matchless swordskill, he saw Lavos gain over him with each stroke. And he began to tire, both in body and in spirit, thinking that perhaps his end was upon him finally. And to this he resigned, and prepared to make his final stand.

From where he lay, Serge could see the battle unfold. It was fearful to watch, for both wielded formidable powers of sorcery, and great prowess in their swordhands. Yet, for all his strength, Serge could not come to the aid of his friend, for the enchantment he had been struck with still bound his limbs motionless. The shrill clash of the blades echoed in his ears, and he prayed that Crono might somehow overcome his foe...

Crono struck at Lavos with wild fury, unwilling to die hopeless and leaving the world unavenged. But each time the Demon parried it with a masterful stroke, and returned with one of yet greater skill. And so it was that Crono weakened and faltered, and his blows became less strong.

"And thus will you die, maggot of a doomed world!" Lavos yelled with hatred, and dealt such a blow that Crono's sword swung wide, and he scarcely kept his hold on the hilt. Yet with the backswing of the same stroke Lavos made a second move for Crono, who now was too weary to wholly defend himself with much speed. And so the edge of that dark sword caught Crono in the right wrist, and he cried out in pain as the black blade found its mark. He looked in agony at his hand; it was gone, and then he knew that now, at last, he was overcome, for he no longer had any strength left in his body. He knelt to a knee, and looked upward at the Demon towering tall and terrible above him, as though he were the black robed herald of death, come for the summons. With a laugh of victory, and a flourish of darkness, Lavos swept his sword through the air, driving a second, more deadly, stroke. The blade pierced Crono in the breast, shattered through bone and flesh, and rent fully through his body.

All this Serge watched unfold as a sickening play acted out, unable to do aught in aid. Yet even as Crono faltered he saw beside him, beyond hope, Schala reawaken. Coming to his side, she spoke to him:

"It is not over yet. Come now! The battle may yet be ours. It must be ours!"

She said this with pain in her voice, and the blood still ran in wet lines down her face, but even so her words had the power to enliven Serge's will.

With a touch she loosed the bonds of magic that held him, and he stood up beside her: weary, yet once more bold of heart, ready to defy all that stood before and against him.

But even as they rose they saw that dreadful stroke fall, and Crono falter to the ground in defeat. He would have died then, had he been alone, for his sword slipped from his hand to the ground, and Lavos towered above him, raising high his dark blade for the deathblow.

But it never fell for he saw, to his dismay, that Schala was once more standing, and Serge beside her. Upon the far side of the chamber Sigurd stirred, and beside him Janus was rising from the dark sleep that had been cast on him.

Lavos stepped back, for he knew that to land that stroke would put him at peril and that, furthermore, his foe was already vanquished. The lifeblood flowed from Crono's wrist and chest, and his face had begun to pale. No powers of his magic could heal the wound that had been dealt him, for the blade was evil. But now, even as he died, his spirit grew greater than ever before, burning to a bright flame within him. His eyes sparked golden, and he looked upon Lavos with a deadly smile upon his cold lips.

"And now shall you die at last, my old enemy. For even as I go hither to my long awaited fate, I perceive that your doom draws near as well. Beware! For it even now at the doorstep."

At this Lavos frowned darkly for, mighty as he was, he was still under fate, and the words filled him with a deadly fear of foreshadowing. For Crono looked upon him as one who now saw the very face of death, and saw other dooms written there as well. And now fear rose up in him, such as matched the darkness of his spirit. He stepped back a full pace, daunted by the whispers of prophecy he saw written in Crono's ghostly face, which were fearful even to the mighty Demon.

Grasping this chance, Schala and Serge ran to Crono, with Janus and Sigurd joining them a moment later.

"I have passed beyond all aid," Crono replied to their efforts to help him, his voice distant yet strong. "I will die now, as was always my destiny."

Janus shook his head to this.

"No, no friend! Live, that the world may have hope! For that yet remains."

Crono turned to his voice, as if it came from afar.

"Ah, you speak truly. But not so for me. Hope in life is gone, yet I will not die hopeless: the future may yet find salvation. From beyond the dark shadows of this accursed day shall arise a morn more fair and glorious than ever before."

He looked over to Lavos, who was still watching his opponent with uncertain eyes. The words a moment before had set a certain fear loose in his heart, and disquiet gnawed away in his darkness.

"Take heed: strength and might of human sinew," Crono said, "these will not defeat him. Yet I see now that our hope may be his doom. And so..."

He faltered, but Sigurd caught him.

"Yes, but do not worry yourself now, father!"

"Worry? Why should I worry, child? Neither do I grieve for my fate. You shall now lead the people of Guardia as Lord, and for that I rejoice. But now..."

With some supreme effort he stood, to the utter amazement of all. Lavos stared darkly, and wished for death to take Crono swiftly. Yet he dared not touch him, for some power he did not understand was in him.

"My sword," Crono said, and Serge lifted the Rainbow to his hand. Crono gripped the hilt tightly, even as his breath grew dim. But with a last effort he called across to Lavos:

"And thus shall you die, my enemy! For it is the will of God that your power be broken to pieces, and your evil be amended!"

And raising high his sword, which now shone as with all the braided fires of the rainbow, he whispered:

"One last time in life we stand united for the cause of destiny. I have met my fate; this now is your battle."

They raised their weapons to his, and stood together. And as they touched Crono's mighty sword shattered with a flash of all colours of light, scorching the ever dark eyes of Lavos where they sat peering from the shadows.

Then Crono fell to the ground once more, never to rise in life again.

But to their wonder their swords and weapons that they wielded seemed no longer as they had been. They all shone with a golden fire, flaming more brilliantly than the sun upon silver.

Janus laughed, then. Despair had left him. He drew out his sword and the letters, carven with skilful hands in ancient craft, shone as script of molten gold upon the guard.

"He is mine. Cry victory for Zeal, and the kingdoms of Men!" he said to the three, and stepped forward.

But Janus was overconfident, and not through such swords could victory hope to be won. The blades met.

"The angel of death awaits you, Lavos!" Janus said tauntingly. "His sword is drawn, and he looks to you."

Lavos swept the swords apart, and laughed. He laughed so greatly that the echo rung shrill in their ears.

"But who do you think I am?" Lavos said with a flourish of his cruel blade. "If there is any in this world who is the bringer of death, it is I!" he cried, his voice a rasping and wicked tone. "I, master of dark fate, who of old descended into the realm of Hades and took up throne there. Your thread is measured, and now shall be cut, for my sword is shadows, and my grip is death. Do not foolishly daunt me with illusions of my demise. Rather, it is you for whom that angel is bidden come!"

And he stepped forward, dark eyes kindled. With a stroke he sent Janus' sword wheeling far out of sight into the darkness. With a mighty shout Lavos swept down his blade for Janus. The stroke he dealt now would have cleft the truest helm of iron or steel. And yet, by the enchantments Crono had laid upon them at his death, the blade was turned fiercely away, though Janus himself stumbled to the ground under the strength of that blow. In anger Lavos bore his sword point towards Janus' unguarded face. Yet the wizard spun so that once again his helm bore the stroke. But he was weary, and weaponless, and knelt on the ground before Lavos, struggling to rise. And Lavos, seeing that his sword was useless to pierce the armour, struck Janus in the face with an iron boot, sending the wizard stumbling to the ground. Then Lavos placed one heavy heel upon Janus' head, pinning it to the earth, and made to hew off his head with a stroke. But Schala ran forward, and before he could deal the deadly blow, called to Lavos words of command:

"Halt, Lavos, evil and accursed upon this earth! Halt, Surtur, Son of Muspell, our enemy of old!"

He scowled at the words, turning a perilous gaze upon Schala.

"How dare you speak of such things?" he demanded in anger.

But Schala returned his gaze, not faltering for a moment. And the words she spoke were filled with power:

_Flee, shadows! Depart, you thralls to darkness!_

_Look to the eastern sky!_

_The steeds of morning are in harness,_

_the herald of day, fair Eos, arises!_

_Lo! in chariot of gold enthroned speeds Helios, _

_arising in splendour unmatched to lighten the world!_

_Behold! Phoibos Apollon, the terrible and glorious! _

_Hail, servants of light! Darkness is vanquished!_

But Lavos laughed, seemingly amused, and Schala faltered, stumbling to the ground as she spent the last of her strength.

"Im aith tosha dachao. Your weak spells have no power over me, base woman!" he spat in mockery. Yet even so he staggered a little, and his heel slipped from where it held Janus to the ground. In that moment, discerning the fleeting weakness of his enemy, Janus threw himself upon Lavos.

And thus befell the grandest of all contests of strength that has ever been, and perhaps ever shall be, as Janus, master of shadows, wrestled with Lavos. As champion of humanity Janus fought, a symbol of all the strength of that race. The power of ancient Zeal was alive in his arms, and as forged iron was his grip in that hour. His fist was a ram-head of steel; his will as though fashioned of unyielding adamant.

Stumbling weakly to her knees, Schala saw her brother now as she had not before seen him. Fist to fist, locked in a mortal combat with the Lord of Terror. Darkness fought darkness; the shadows warred, and power was matched with power. Lavos was wrestled to the ground, but rose with a desperate strength and, in his turn, brought Janus to his knees. Their eyes burned in hatred, each for the other, and neither would yield. With a great cry Janus clasped his pale fingers about his enemy's throat, and brought him down as well.

Serge looked to Schala in wonder, unsure as what to do. He wished to help Janus, but it seemed a wall of enchantment, perhaps the power of fate, encircled the two, and he could not find the will to cross it. Even Schala was powerless to interfere, and Sigurd knelt with his sword upon the ground and a whispered prayer upon his lips.

The struggle wore on, each throwing the other to the stone floor countless time, until the blood ran red from Janus' mouth, and black from Lavos'. But Janus, though mightiest and unmatched in this world, faced an unearthly foe. His hands were only mortal, and the fingers that he grappled against were ages old, and had never known either death or weakness. The strength of Lavos was that of the tyrant of a thousand worlds, master of the darkness that fills the voids and quenches the stars. Janus was overborne.

With a great effort Lavos hurled Janus away from him and smiled, for once again he had been proven stronger. And in that grim though his might redoubled, knowing that he was near to victory, and that the rule of all the world was within his grasp. Janus was spent and weaponless. Schala glanced fire, but was in a swoon from her injury; all her wisdom and power had failed her at the last, and she shuddered in despair. Sigurd was mostly unharmed, as was Serge, but even together their power was not enough to contend with Lavos. Yet in that minute the words Crono had spoken in prophecy at his death were proven true.

"Serge! The deciding moment has come! Here do waver doom and salvation upon the scales!" Janus cried hoarsely, stumbling to his feet.

To Serge it seemed as if fate itself had possessed his mind. Janus needed neither tell him what to do, nor did he contemplate what he did. With a mighty throw he cast the Masamunë, the Holy Blade of Zeal, into Janus' hands. With the lightness of a master warrior Janus swept it about him. In his fingers, fingers that had never before dared to touch that holy sword, the weapon shone. Its blades of metal faded, and the haft became as a shining lance of light, held spinning in the grasp of the mightiest of the wizards of the ages. And then it seemed that the darkness fell from him as a cloak slipping from the shoulders, and in his eyes burned an angel's fire, where only darkness had dwelt before. The years of evil and malice lifted from him in that moment, and he was revealed in his true power, a might more great than any he had held before. For ever it is fated that the light shall be mightier than the darkness, and never will evil have dominion forever. The lance Janus threw, with greater strength than any spearman has ever done. It pierced the air as a gleam of sunlight, neither faltering nor waning in its course, and rent the dark flesh of Lavos. Through his chest it flew, and landed with a clatter upon the stones far behind. It was the Masamunë swallow once again.

Lavos staggered, from mingled pain and surprise.

He put his hands to his chest, felt there the agony of the wound, and saw the black blood flowing from it. And now a fear swept him, more cold than the frozen voids that lie between the stars.

Lavos stepped backward a pace. His strength was waning; he could feel his power depart from him with his blood. And he was powerless by magic to heal such a holy wound. In desperation he called out words of power, seeing Serge and Sigurd step in challenge before him:

_Aithacha entra tina ar toshith_

_Elachon! Hë asant eltho hael_

_Ishat ar arytha, kalacha il hadon_

_Elachon lom hael saio, termon sai!_

But his fear deepened, for naught happened. Neither dark apparitions nor enchanted storms of shadow.

_"Termon sai!"_ he cried again. _"Asant eltho hael!"_

"It has been decreed by fate, Lavos!" Janus yelled hoarsely, clutching his wounded arm. "Your death is at hand. Lo! all magic, even the darkness, has forsaken you! Now you stand naked at the seat of judgement, and powerless your deeds will be called into account. And the sentence is this: that you must die."

And Lavos paused. He saw all too well that his own destruction was near, with no way to avoid it. The might of the Masamunë had wrested from him his powers of sorcery, and dealt him the most dire stoke that he had ever endured. Yet his arrogance and pride would not allow him to submit lightly. Never would he brook such a fate to befall him. He pressed forward one last desperate stroke, yet faltered, for his mortal wound stained the floor black with his evil lifeblood, and the injury overcame his strength. His sword flashed short to the ground before Janus, even as he attempted to cut him down, and golden sparks struck up from where it met the stone.

And before him Janus smiled. Yet it was bereft of mockery or darkness, and held rather pity; it was the joyful look of light victoring over darkness. Lavos clutched weakly at his death-wound, gasping his last hoarse breaths.

"Curse you!" he growled, but his voice had lost all power, and held no more fear. Never before had he known such lack of strength. His sword clattered to the ground, its sable blade shattering into pieces as his power waned. He fixed his dark eyes upon Serge, with a hatred made even more potent out of the despair shining darkly in their depths.

"And you! You, Serge, with whose sword I have been slain. With my dying breath, I curse you with a fate of bitter woe. May no peace find you hereafter, and let all your days be filled with grief."

And their ancient foe spoke no more. With this final parting curse he toppled forward and thundered heavily to the ground, shaking the cavern as with a mighty earthquake. But no one ever after saw his body for, as his spirit faded to nothingness a dark fire, as if all the misdeeds of his life had come to take their vengeance upon him, flamed up about him. They burned in flames of devouring wrath, consuming his mortal house to ashes in a moment, and scorching the stones upon which he had fallen.

(Last Edited October 17, 2004)


	25. A Parting of Ways

CHAPTER XXIV

**A PARTING OF WAYS

* * *

**

For long that to their minds seemed well near to years, not one of them spoke. They merely stood, silent and thoughtful, feeling neither pain nor weariness, and thinking upon what had now passed: the evil was dead; the world was free. Into their hearts leaped such joy and peace mingled as no other mortals have ever known. They could feel it echoing throughout their spirits and filling their hearts. The shouts of unchained freedom that all the living things of the earth now shared overwhelmed them as a brook of purest water, bringing an end to all evil. To their ears it seemed as if the very angels of heaven sang in jubilant choirs heralding this new born freedom, such was the joy of that hour.

"The enemy is dead," Schala said at long last, speaking what they all felt.

"Oh, blessed morn of freedom, Crono spoke truly in prophecy! You are come at last, and you are more glorious than near any that has arisen since the dawning of the world!"

Even as these words escaped her lips, as if in final testament of what had then chanced, the chamber began to crumble.

"Let us leave these accursed halls," Janus said glancing upward. "And let them lie buried forevermore."

The stones that the roof was built of now began to fall, rending pits into the earth where they struck, and casting splintered shards about.

But the four walked through this unworried, bearing the body of their dead comrade. They knew that it was not their fate to perish to such stones, and heeded them no more than leaves falling in an autumn forest. Even as they stepped from the hall the last of the arches, with a mighty sound of rending stone, crumbled inward, sealing that place for all eternity.

Staggering through the crumbling passages, the weary group came at long last upon higher halls, and thence to the open sky. They stood upon the topmost height of the steps of the senate hall, those which overlooked the forum. From far afield they heard the sounds of a battle still fought upon the plain, but cared little for it. Surely their own battle had been long, but now it appeared that, to the eyes of the world, not long had passed: in the far distance the sun was now fallen to below the horizon, and only the last touch of dim dusk remained. Perhaps a single hour since they had begun.

"A fair dusk, Serge! A sign of better times now upon us!" Schala cried.

Serge looked out over the distant sea, knowing the truth of the matter with dread: it was sunset on the twenty-second of April.

"For some, maybe,"

"Serge," Schala began, but he turned away, not wishing to face any words, even those of comfort. Naught had changed, and his one hope had been cruelly cheated. Lavos lay dead, his spirit banished out of the world forever, but the last marks of his hands still lingered. They had been so near! But no, near was still late, and so Leena was dead. Cursed fate! He had failed in his task.

Schala placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He smiled sadly, and bowing his head shook it.

"Why, Schala? If you know, tell me. Why do things always have to be like this? Can love and peace never last?"

He turned, and the light in his eyes was both sombre and mellow, as one supporting a great grief only with effort. For he indeed did so, and had lately come through great torment and struggle; surely he could not have been unchanged.

She shook her head in reply to his question.

"No, all my knowledge does not avail me in this matter. Even Lavos did not know all things, and some truths are fated to remain mysteries in shadows for ever. But a curse is laid upon us, that is sure. One that ever turns our toil against us, and spites our victories. An ancient evil, not of Lavos, but of ourselves. All I may do now is quell some of your grief by reminding you to hope in better times, as you once did."

"But will they ever come again, Schala? How can they now, at least for me?"

Janus glanced upward from where he sat wearily, near on the ground beside the body of his friend.

"Do not think such thoughts now! You make the victory yet more bitter. This should be a day of feasting and glory."

Serge shook his head. He now saw things with wiser eyes.

"Victory...yes. A great victory. And bitter, too, like you say. We're the ones who've suffered to win it!"

Schala nodded in agreement.

"True enough, Serge. That is the price that fate has laid upon us, perhaps. The cost by which the world found salvation. It certainly seems bitter now, but is it not a small price in exchange for what we have gained? We have redeemed the future, and overthrown the ancient tyrant! Yet not merely for what we have done will we be remembered, but by what we were willing to lose, and did indeed lose, in this immortal struggle. Is that not the measure of strength, and of heroes?"

"Maybe," Serge murmured. Her words rung true, as ever. And yet they did nothing to relieve the profound loss that now swept his heart.

"Leena," he whispered with a tear, remembering all days he had spent with her, at home.

But her spirit was gone from the world forever now, to lands un-trodden by living feet, and never more would her eyes look upon either a setting sun or upon his face in love. Nor he upon her face. Twilight had now fully descended, and a still peace filled with melancholy came over them.

"An end has come for many things, now, haven't they Schala?" Serge asked.

She nodded softly.

"Yes, that may be, though only the future will tell us with certainty. But perhaps the ancient tale is at long last over. Many countless ages it has spanned, but in my spirit I believe its ending is right here, at this very moment."

Janus nodded in agreement, smiling. And for the first time Serge saw neither a hint of malice nor hate in his eyes.

"Zeal is now at long last avenged, for I feel a peace I have never before known. My vows of old are fulfilled, and I am no longer bound to them."

Schala looked to Serge and, laying a hand upon his shoulder, peered into his eyes. She saw he held back his tears.

"Ah, this is a time for such things; courage is no longer needed, for it has fulfilled its purpose today. Weep now, my friend. The tears will comfort you. We have fought hard and long, and had much slip away."

They stood there for long unmoved, looking with changed eyes upon a changed world, until the last of light had failed, and a peaceful darkness took all.

A week later they had returned north to Guardia. With the death of Lavos Porre had lost its governing will, and their armies had scattered in fear. The legions of Mystics had marched in triumph into the citadel of Porre the morning following death of Lavos, and none to barred their way. Though they had not been without loss, the battlefield outside the city being scattered with hundreds of dead, it was still a joyful victory by most accounts. It was seen to it by Azarel himself that the armies of Porre were utterly disbanded and, with much effort, the guns and steel swords of Porre were destroyed so that they might never make war or seek to conquer their neighbours again. What ships remained in the Home Armada were taken north to Guardia, where they were harbored as war spoil. The government of Porre, it was found, had been overthrown by the military some time before and so, in final guard against any treachery, Azarel assumed the title of Emperor. The senate of Porre, however, was given freedom to govern their land in whichever way they might, and Azarel only ruled so that there would be no chance of war again.

But all these doings for the most part fell to the Mystics, who Sigurd hailed as allies and brothers, and to whom he swore everlasting oaths of comradeship. The company, now but four, began for home on the eve following the victory, and did not care to partake of the victory feast that Azarel prepared in honour of them all.

Little enough chanced on the way. They were not slowed in any wise by any in Porre, but two days into the journey a sudden thought came to Serge, one that the victory and later grief had driven from his mind.

"Why can't we use the Time Egg again, Schala?" he asked. "To save Leena, and Crono?"

"Time's gates are closed now," she answered solemnly. "If not forever, then at the very least until some great need once again

unbars them. Such a time has now ended, and behind us they are fastened shut. The Time Egg will not avail us if fate rules against such measures, as I can feel it has. Now, as not before, we must live with the past and know it to be unchangeable."

And Serge knew with those words that any hope of seeing Leena again was vain. He did not weep, but spent much of the remainder of the journey in silence, keeping to himself and his thoughts. She was dead, but he was not. What was this, now? He wondered what his path should be, and where it would lead him.

Upon their arrival in Guardia they found things vastly better than they had left it. The armies had fought valiantly and, though outnumbered, they had held the victory in the end. Two thousand of the enemy had surrendered themselves willingly, but these Sigurd commanded to be set free after swearing solemn oaths never to join in any war of conquest again. As for the armies of Guardia, some few of the captains found it strange when they attempted to recall when or why their lords had left them. All they could say is that they were certain that they had departed on some dire errand, and had left the battle in their charge. But none could recall precisely what was said, or even when. Needless to say they were most amazed to hear of the deeds performed in the south, though not one of them could comprehend how all this had come to be. But neither, for that matter, could Serge, nor even Schala. And so things were simply remembered as they were, and not as they had been. But certainly not all was joyful. For Serge, it was a hard blow, as Leena remained dead, and all their strong-willed hopes had failed to save her life. Schala said it to be the will of fate, and those things that were destined to change had done so, and those that were ordained to remain were unchanged. It was a most likely truth, but was little comfort to Serge's heart that fate should will the death of his wife, and wresting her away allow him such a cruel hope, but with no true chance of saving her. And then there was the second lamentation, that which touched them all: when things were in order again, and the last of the remnants of Porre sent back to their own lands, they went to the east by the shore to bury the body of the fallen king.

Though it had been much over a week since his death, it appeared that some magic lay yet upon his body, for it had remained incorrupt. Most marvelled at this thing, but for the four... had they not faced demons and passed through time? Such were greater things, and were too weary to care much for any wonders. It might be thought that for one so great as Crono a tomb of great size would have been fitting, that all might see it and remember the charmed life that he had led. But it was not so. He was laid to rest after the fashion of a dead king from a lesser age: placed in a hollow of stone beside the sea, covered with simple stones from the shore. This last duty fell to Sigurd, as the king's son, and it was twilight of the burial day when at last he placed, with trembling hands, the final stone upon the cairn. Far behind the changeless seas sounded upon the cliff-shore.

Schala said a space of thoughtful words and Sigurd, after his fashion, said a parting prayer for his father. Finally Janus drew his sword and knelt before the grave, shaking his head.

"Rest peacefully, my old friend. Yours was not the lightest of paths to tread, but now you may come into your rest knowing that you have followed it faithfully and well."

He brought out the shattered shards of the Rainbow Sword, such as he had been able to save from the ruinous hall ere they had fled, and placed them amidst the stones of the tomb.

"This weapon of yours will not ever be reforged. It was yours alone, and perishes with you."

Janus rose again sweeping his sword upward in final salute to his friend. Returning the blade to its scabbard he turned to face the others.

"What other words need I say? To the ears of the perished does no prayer come, so he does not need them. Let us not grieve, for we will only show sorrow for ourselves and those that remain. The dead need few tears."

He stole a fleeting glance backward at the grave, and a soft change came over his face:

"Even so I, and the whole world, shall miss him."

Schala nodded in assent.

"He was the friend of fate, and the Great Hero of the ages. Who deserves tears more than he, for who did more than what he did? Let us mourn, let the whole world mourn, for the one who saved it is now dead."

Serge merely remained quiet. His words were of little eloquence, and he would rather remain quiet than sound foolish.

They stood there in silence for a time, listening only to the sounds of the waves and gulls. At last they were joined by some others: people from Guardia that came to give their honour to their dead king, and place treasures of gold and silver upon his grave (as was the ancient custom of that land.) The four, not wishing to be among a throng, retreated down the cliffs a ways, and sat to watch the sun descend.

"Whose tale was this, Schala?" Serge said at last. "I was drawn into it unwillingly. You were, too. We all were, from Zeal to Guardia. Can this all have just been Lavos' story?"

Schala nodded at his words, thinking them over.

"Perhaps, yes. He was the only thing that remained unchanged. And with his death, it ends. What shall the world do now, with its freedom?"

"It will continue as it always has, Schala," Janus replied. "As you have said, our flaws our not born of Lavos' malice, and so we must live with them even now; we have but defeated one evil, but there are others in this world, and not the least dwell within our own hearts. And say not that the tale is over, nor even that it was Lavos' tale. Rather, I should think that this is the story of mankind that we weave, and it was Lavos who fell into it at its beginning."

"Unravelled it?" Serge suggested.

"Maybe," Janus answered. "At the least the tapestry of history is not as it was destined to be otherwise. And I wonder: what was the original design that was intended? Was it better, or has it been refined through strife?"

"Better or worse only the Great Weaver may say," Schala said. "But I should think that it is the way things are, not the might-have-beens, that are the true intent. But what is this you say: even though the chapter is over, the story yet continues? Interesting."

She turned her eyes to the sea. It beckoned her away to a far path. Perhaps the story was not ended yet, but her part here was, at least. She stood.

"But even as one thing ends, so must others. The time has come for farewells, Serge."

Serge started, not having expected this now of all times.

"You're leaving? Why do you want to now?"

"No, not because I wish to, but because I must. My fate still leads me on."

"Don't go yet!" Serge cried, standing suddenly. "Out of all my friends, you and Janus are the last! Crono is dead, and Leena..."

"Dear Serge," she said softly, in a voice of pity. "I must. This circle has not yet begun, and there are other things that I must yet do from the other world to effect it. But do not grieve overlong at this parting! It may be that we will never see each other again, yet this is how things must now be..." she said, and cast a strange look upon him, "unless, that is, you wish to return with me."

She spoke the last words quickly, from her heart and with little forethought. And for this her mind begrudged her at once: she had spoken too much. For in these words Serge saw her hidden longing and unspoken hope that she held near.

Schala turned quickly, shifting her eyes from his all too keen glance. It seemed to her that Serge had grown, not in bodily strength, but in that of his mind and spirit. Through sorrow he had learned wisdom and understanding, even as had once been her lot. And his eyes were more keen than before. At the very least she could not meet them, for it seemed he could read her the very desires of her heart written therein.

"Schala," he began, yet halted as she raised a hand commanding him to be silent.

"Serge, do not reply. I charge you as a dear friend to forget that I ever spoke it."

"My sister," Janus said, rising slowly from the ground, "if this is indeed your last parting, will you leave while he does not know all that is in your heart? Shall you go when secrets lie yet between you?"

But Serge dismissed his words. It was not necessary that either tell him. He could see it well enough of his own sight. In the distance the surf broke gently upon the beach, and a warm wind swept in from the sea.

He walked to where Schala stood, back still to him. But he walked around to face her and, clasping her hand in his, looked upon her with a slight smile. He now understood.

"Ah, I can see now what you've been hiding, Kid. You love me, then?"

She sighed, resigning her secret that she had so long kept hidden from all but her brother.

"Yes. Yes, I most surely do. Though I attempt to deny it!" she added bitterly.

"Kid. Schala of Zeal, my most loyal and beloved friend: that wasn't very wise. You can't hide a thing like that forever, and expect it just to fade away."

What irony this was: each had taken the place of the other. Always it had been she counselling him in amidst his doubts, speaking to him of what wisdom she knew. But now it seemed that, at least for that moment, he was the wiser.

"And," he continued, "it's not entirely unreturned. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't feel a little of the same towards you also."

She smiled sadly, knowing beforehand what words he was about to speak.

"But this can't be. At least not now. Things are different, in some way. There's no place in my heart anymore for that kind of love. A melancholy has fallen on it, and before it lifts I have to find some peace. I can't follow you where you're going."

She nodded silently, but small tears coursed down her cheeks as he continued, for the words, though truly spoken, stung her heart dearly.

"But I can't go home, either. Crono once told me that someone has to live where their heart rests; that was once by Leena. But with she being dead my heart is unchained and lost. For a long time my home will be as lost as my heart."

Schala fought to keep her countenance noble and unmoved, and struggled against her tears. But when she saw that Serge, too, wept somewhat, she let it be. She closed her tear-ridden eyes and turned.

"And so I must leave now. We must not see each other again, not till we are both changed with years. I shall return to you, if you so desire it. Call for me. I will ever listen for it, and will hear it, be it tomorrow or upon my deathbed, and will find some way to return. And mayhap you shall hear from me again. But alas you speak truly, and foresight tells me this: we will not look into one another's eyes again for many years. And, though I pray that it is not so, perhaps never again. Janus, come! The quicker we depart, the less the grief."

She looked once more to the unchanging sea, now silhouetted in the faint light of the unseen sun. She drew out her long-wielded dagger.

"And for this, I have now little need! I will gladly rid myself of it at last, this trophy of bloodshed, war, and woe-ridden fates. Will you keep it Serge, in remembrance of all these passed things, and of me?"

Serge shook his head.

"I don't need a knife to remember you by. Memory will last longer and clearer."

"Very well. But then rid me of it, I pray. Throw it out to sea, and let it rest there. A symbol of the ending of toil and battle, at the very least for us."

She placed it in his hands the hilt of her knife. Her queenly dagger, which she had carried for many long years of toil. But now its time was over. With as great a throw as he could bring his weary arms to give he hurled the metal blade spinning far out to sea. It flickered like a falling star for a moment, then vanished into the waves.

"And there let it lie till these seas are withered. We now disband, for our task is done, and our journey complete," Schala said gravely.

"Truly," Janus said in reply to Schala. "But come now, my sister! Let us not depart yet. Here you may well find rest."

The words were neither lightly nor unwisely said, it seemed. Though it had ever been his way to speak rashly and in pride, such things had now departed from him forever. The dark sorcerer was no more, for he was robed in garments of shimmering white, traced with weavings of gold and silver that reflected the sheen of the sun. He seemed as a cloud behind which the sun hides, yet even as the heavenly light burns at its verges, and flames from behind in hidden glory, his power could not be fully veiled. Truly here was the last prince and lord of Zeal, and his words were as the wisdom that brings low all foolishness.

But she shook her head.

"Farewells have already been said, and my heart is set upon this path. What more do we find in this world now, but sorrow?"

"Guardia may need you, my Lady," Sigurd offered hopefully.

"Guardia does not need me, King Sigurd. Not any longer. Through war it has been reborn. Through sorcery it has been saved. A king it has lost, but a new king now reigns in his stead."

She looked over to Sigurd, who smiled sadly.

"Yes. I am left with a high and difficult duty, and I pray that I do not fail my land in it; I shall do my utmost to live to my father's mighty example. Alas that our great castle is fallen; time and fate has dealt us a hard blow," he looked to the sea that beat upon the shore. "But I do not curse it! Let it signal the rebirth Guardia. A new flame springing from the ashes of the old."

Serge smiled at these words, so like to those he had heard Crono once say.

"So much like his father," he said. "Yes, Guardia will live again. And I'll swear to you that if you ever need me, I'll come to your aid, and the aid of your people."

Sigurd bowed shortly in thanks.

"Upon this shore, where my father is buried and companions depart, shall be built the new fortress of Guardia. Tel-Astera shall it be named, 'the castle of the Heavens': a citadel by the sea. White will be its walls, and silver its banners. I shall make its towers of marble: greater and fairer than any of stone before it since the days of Zeal."

"That, Sigurd, is your journey," Schala said, casting her lazuli eyes upon the youth. "May you meet with good fortune in it, and in all your days and deeds. Farewell, friend, and may God smile upon you and what you put your hand to."

She turned to the sea yet again. Reaching with absent fingers into her pack she brought out the Time Egg. In her hands the last rays of sun were reflected on its brilliant pearl-like shell, dancing and weaving with an immortal glow.

Upon her palm, seemingly at no bidding but only of its own will, the Egg began to spin, slowly at first but gaining in speed. The many colours that shimmered upon its shell now flashed in flickering light.

"To the other world, and whatever may follow," Schala said, looking hard upon the Egg. And the thing did not deny her this wish, for it was in accordance with the will of fate. A whirl of azure light broke in the air before her: the gate that crossed the worlds.

All at once a dazzling burst of sun-like light shimmered from the depths of the doorway, and for a half moment Serge shielded his eyes from the brightness.

As his eyes regained their sight, he saw Schala give one last nod of farewell to him, with a half-smile of bittersweet melancholy upon her lips.

She placed the Egg into the hands of her brother and, without so much as a glace backward, but with her head bowed in grief, stepped forward through the door.

Almost Serge reached out to stay her departure. Nearly his voice called out to halt her. But he checked his will and heart, knowing with some wisdom that things were happening as they should and must.

Even so Serge wept a small tear as Schala stepped through the enchanted doorway. It may well have been the very last he would see her. And now Janus also turned, as if to step through. Yet at the last he returned his gaze to Serge. His countenance bore none of the rage, neither the hate nor pain that it had carried in all the long years of his life before. A joyous peace had descended upon his mind, and it shone like a starfire in his eyes. He was his true self once again, such as he had not been since before his memory could recall. And in his eyes Serge read both compassion and pity. He raised his right hand with open palm outward in the ancient salute of the Zeal High Court, and bowed low.

"Farewell, Serge, twice hero and beloved friend! It may be that some day the paths of my sister and you may cross once again, but I foresee we shall never meet in life again. This is our final farewell, and I wish you the best. I shall pray that you find that which you seek."

Serge did not know in what way to reply, but to this uncertainty Janus smiled softly, pity in his eyes. For while he knew that his journey was over, he saw a great road lay yet before Serge.

"Do not forget my sister, Serge. She has always loved you, and she shall never give up hope in seeing you again. Know that she spoke truly when she said she would ever wait for you alone, yea, even unto her deathbed. She would hold her life complete with no loss to only see your eyes one last time ere death. For such is her love for you, though you see naught of it till now. I beg you, do not spurn her promise!"

He reached into his robes, and drew out a small ring.

"So that you do not forget, receive this token. It was once my signet ring, as a prince of Zeal. Never have I worn it since my childhood, deeming it to be a bitter reminder of all that I had lost. But now may it serve as a reminder for you, of my sister. A symbol that, wherever your journeys may take you, her goodwill and love are with you; though your hearts are separate, her prayers will be upon your path. As for me, my eyes are unclouded from the night now, and I can see things clearly that were once hidden. From this day hence I will live the way of peace over war, of love rather than hatred. And I say to you to live for the same, and always remember that you have the love of the most mighty and noble of mortal women. God's speed, Serge."

He placed the ring into Serge's hand. Serge held it up, straining to look at it in the dim twilight. It was a small true-silver band, set with a lone crimson stone.

He placed it onto his finger with a smile of thanks.

"Tell her, I will always remember."

Janus nodded, and with a low bow and sweep of his cloak took a step backward.

The whirling blue light engulfed him, and he disappeared.

"Two more valiant and mighty children of this earth there have never been." Sigurd said at Serge's side, "They were truly the greatest of all."

Serge nodded, and turned to Sigurd.

"Send word out if you need me, and I'll come."

Sigurd frowned, stealing a fleeting glance to the doorway, even as it faded into the air.

"Where are you going? Surely you are not returning to your home so soon!"

Serge shook his head.

"No, not home. I have no home, anymore," he said sadly.

"But, can it not be here, then?" Sigurd replied brokenly. "This land is forever indebted to you, and you will always find a gracious welcome here."

But Serge again shook his head shook his head, stealing a glance to the grave. A few people had now gathered about it to show their respect to their one-time king; how few knew the truth of his great deeds, or how noble a man lay beneath it. An old hooded man smoking a pipe knelt before the grave, whispering unhearable words to the cairn.

"No. I can't find peace here. I can only hope to allay my grief in wandering. Farewell, and may I see you soon again. But you have my word: I will return before next winter."

"But till then, where will you be?"

Serge looked across the distant plain to the forests beyond. And far past that, a near boundless world.

"Wherever my path takes me. More than that, I don't know."

And so saying, he turned.

But even as he did so a voice called out to stay him:

"Are you so quick to depart, then?"

Serge turned to see the old hooded man that had been kneeling at the grave.

"Why do you say that?" Serge asked. "You have better advice to give me?"

The man looked up slightly, but his eyes remained shadowed.

"I merely take notice that you are swift to continue your journeys," he replied, returning the pipe to his lips. "You do not tarry in this place and time, as many would do after so harsh a journey."

"But what choice do I have in that? Time found him. It will find me, even if I try to hide from it. But what's this, or I, to you?"

"Ah," the man said, drawing deeply from his pipe and letting the smoke drift slowly from between his lips. "I, if you have not already guessed it, am a one-time friend of the one that lies perished beneath that cairn."

"That is cryptic, and my mood is not for riddles, old man," Serge said crossly. "I have..."

"You have lost all that you hold dear. You have been most wickedly undone, even amidst a glorious victory."

Serge returned his words with a curious glance.

"What do you know of me?"

"You are the hero Serge Masamunë. And in scorn of what appeared to be a fate of woe and grief, you have risen again in hope, and in so doing have shown your truest strength."

"Who are you?" Serge asked, glancing thoughtfully at the old man. Now that he contemplated him more nearly, some memory came to his mind. "Are you the one called Gaspar?"

"Ah, so you guess it, do you? Yes, I am the third of three: the latest of the Masters of the Ancient World. Or perhaps I might be accounted the first; it is a most uncertain thing to say. Such orderings are from the standing of the eyes that see them, and to live within time was not my destiny. I seldom leave my abode that lies at the End."

Serge nodded with recognition, remembering this prophet of time from tales told to him long before by Schala.

"Why are you here, then?" Serge asked, taking a piercing glance into the darkness that hid his eyes. "If what's said is true, then all the ages are open to you. You come here, to this day of sadness? Why?"

"To bid a late farewell to the Great Hero, as he will be known for a long span of years," he replied with a smile. "Do not think me pitiless in my knowledge, and that I did not weep tears when I saw his feet first tread upon this doom-ridden path."

"You knew this was his fate, lord Gaspar?"

The man nodded softly.

"Verily, I know all of what is fated to happen in this world, my friend. I knew this to be his destiny even before he first came to me. When he stumbled upon my abode, I marked his eyes and knew the hour and design of his last day, and knew every joy and sorrow that lay before him in his life. Many there are that might judge me harshly for not guiding him from it, but he would not be among them, I deem. He knew this, as do I: fate and destiny are born of a stronger will than ours, and those who attempt to fashion them to their own designs find themselves only ensnares all the more tightly, in the end. It is a dire curse that I am smitten with, to have the knowledge of woe, and the wisdom to let it happen in scorn of my human heart. And even now, I know the fashion of the final day of this world. Yea, I know what fate will befall you in the end."

He paused.

"If you wish it, I will tell you of your destiny, though it is contrary to my wisdom," he said, the smoke of his pipe tracing ghostlike fingers into the air.

Serge shook his head darkly in reply.

"A test, that's all your words are. And I'll pass it here and now, if it entertains you. That wouldn't be a wise thing; if I knew it and, knowing it to be dark, ran from it, it would only find me all the faster. But don't test me, Master Gaspar. Keep your own wisdom close, and don't try a man that's already so near breaking."

Gaspar smiled, drawing a deep breath from his pipe.

"Truly, I would not have told you had you asked, yet I knew that you would say even as you did, and thus I could speak without imperiling my wisdom. Ah, but I ramble, child. I keep you from your fate, and must shortly return to mine."

He turned to go, but Serge called out to him.

"But why do things happen like this? Why do we have to die to evil, yet never completely destroy it? Can't we ever escape it? That, at least, I'd have you tell me."

The man turned about slowly, lowering his pipe from his mouth.

"It is the Curse, Serge. Think not that folly began with Zeal, and that our race was not corrupt ere then. Ever and anon, when we think ourselves free from its clutches and revel in our glory, we are struck to the earth by such disaster. It reminds us of who and what we are, and that we are but mortals. And we ourselves have brought evil into the world, and so must abide with the judgement until the remaking."

Gaspar bowed low before Serge.

"Perhaps you may come to some understanding of this, in time..." he said, his voice trailing. And even as he did so his form faded, as if he were no more than a dream. And then there was silence, save for the endless call of the waves.

And then Serge nodded, knowing that the rest of his life was now at hand. Wordlessly he turned about, looking upon the road that he was fated to follow.

He walked steadfast and determined, as a hero at once victorious and defeated, undone by grief yet still cherishing hope. At his side he brandished about the Masamunë once, in a warrior's farewell to both the living and dead.

4

And so it was Serge wandered off alone into the wild. Though he oft returned to Guardia, and feasted at times of high festival with his old comrade the king, he never after had for himself any lasting home, save that which was given him by his journeys. He lived a wild and simple life, by both land and sea, but was a friend to all who would receive him. Indeed, as he often said to those whom he met, he knew too much of the joys and sorrows of the world, or things high and base, to ever be wholly at peace again. As he was oft heard to say: "Maybe, someday, I'll find rest for my spirit, and let my heart to love again; but I think that day will never come."

And in this manner it came to pass that, for many years after the rise of Guardia, Serge wandered his way around the world, east and west, north and south, and learned all that he could, seeking answers to questions that he did not know. It came to be that none in that generation were more learned in either lore or woodcraft than he, though some have said that this was greatly due to the power of the red ring of dreamstone that he ever wore. And also as a warrior he won much renown, for none there were that neared his might in battle, and even many lifetimes afterward a skald could be heard telling of the legend of the mighty wandering warrior who held the Masamunë. When the flash of his sword was seen upon the battlefields of Guardia, even the greatest of foes trembled in fear, and armies foundered. Some hold it true that, indeed, he never died, and continues to wander the plains of the earth in an endless search for rest. Yet die he did, as do all, though it is not known if any saw him perish, or marked where at last he fell, though all of good will grieved for him. And it is said in legend, truly or untruly, that those who by chance have wandered near his grave have felt in their souls the bittersweet strains of grief and joy mingled, the unquiet that haunted Serge through many of his years. Yet it is not told in any tale whether he at last found the peace he sought, and one may only guess if he was ever reunited with the one called the Princess of Zeal.

And so the greatest of the heroes of that new age became a legend remembered in song, until Guardia was no more, and all the lands were changed.

(Last Edited October 17, 2004)


	26. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

**THE BEGINNING OF THINGS

* * *

**

Surely, much had passed.

Schala looked out the window, to where the westering sun was setting. The light would be failing soon, and she placed a small oil lamp on the table. With a sweep of her hands a flame sparked to life, and the light filled the room. Drawing up a quill, she dipped it in the ink and drew characters upon a page of parchment:

_Es madin ar ainana Dielo aith sol elth, madinad saio, _

_Lavos is now perished, and the world is free of one great curse. Yet the wise might see that others shall arise in his place, and indeed others there were long before his coming. Look to our own hearts, and we will see that perhaps therein lies the first and last of all the evil in this world. But all evil things, from greatest to least, are destined to fall: already they are vanquished, from now till eternity, and what we see are but the dying embers of a fire of woe, whose sparks strike up now and again to kindle a passing blaze. And even so this spark has passed, as must all. Some might call this the end of a tale, yet it is in truth but the end of a chapter of the book of Mankind; and that is but one among many in a library vast beyond measure. And the Keeper knows all that is contained therein, and writes the beginning and end to every tale, and so at needs all that passes beneath His watch must, in the fullness of time, be found to be good. Perhaps it will be tomorrow, or not till the end of the ages, but you may be assured of it. Remember this, Serge, and be comforted until our next meeting, God willing._

_Ever your friend, dearest and beloved, _

_Lady Schala of Zeal_

With a bead of wax she sealed it in an envelope, and trusted it away to a corner of the desk, where lay many such letters. Janus glanced lightly over her shoulder, seeing the what she had written even as she sealed it away.

"You write as if things had not finished, Schala?" he asked with the trace of a smile, for many things now lay clear before him, and he needed not have asked.

"Yes," she answered as it was, "for as you have said: this is not the end of all things, but of only one tale, a thread of ever-living fate. What mortal may say where we now stand? For all our traversing of time, we are none the wiser. Still, for the most part, our minds look back upon the past with memory, but we do not know the truth of the end. And so, seeing only beginning, we can do naught but measure our place from the past, and by how far we have come; but how is before us? And where stand we now on that line?"

"Ah, that is an eternal question, and it shall not be answered until the last day," Janus said, taking a fleeting glance into his own mind. "It is a strange thought. A marvel and mystery that will stand elusive nigh on forever."

"Indeed! Indeed, it is!" Schala continued with a light laugh, but then sombred again. "For we cannot know in what age it is that we live. Are we now standing at the end of all days, after which this world and our race will pass into nothingness?"

"Somehow I do not think so, for this seems to me more like to a beginning than an end," Janus said knowingly.

"But where, then, are we?" Schala replied. "Are we the middle-born of the children of this world, having ages behind us, and eons yet to come? Or are we perhaps only at the start of all things, long though the ages past seem to us now? Ah, it may even be that all we have endured, the trials of war and evil, are but the birth pains of our race ere we are full born. Can it then be that we shall some day be regarded as the eldest of ancient peoples, and be spoken of in myths, to which people will say: 'surely they are but legends, and never truly lived'? If it is the will of fate that our race should endure for the ages to come, then that may indeed be our lot, strange though it seem to us now. Then perhaps dangers far darker than Lavos, deeds mightier than any we have yet wrought, and works more wondrous than any before conceived lie yet in the future. And we have but set the path, taken the first steps for all that shall follow in after times."

"But forgotten, as it is," Janus said.

"Ah, most certainly. To be forgotten is the fate of all. I deem that even the great evil of Lavos will one day become shrouded in legend, even as so much of what came before us is scarce remembered. Yet who among men knows what the future holds? The best of all may be yet to come. And perhaps, God willing, some day we too, as Lavos did, will tread amongst the stars. And when that day comes, can we guard ourselves against the arrogant folly that took him? Will we think ourselves lords and go forth as mighty conquerors, or remember our place and journey as explorers of His vast creation, in humility and wonder?"

"That, as you have said, the future shall tell," Janus answered, "and I should pray that is the second else, as the folly of Lavos has shown us, we will only be doomed to ruin. But peace, sister, that will come as it may. Only the One who knows and is all endings and beginnings can understand such things. I deem that all that has been done this far is but the first page of a tale long beyond reckoning."

"Let us hope so, brother," Schala replied with a smile. "And let us hope that the end is every bit as wondrous as the beginning."

(Last Edited October 17, 2004)


End file.
